


all is well (or we'll crumble from within)

by cassiopeia721



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), BAMF Harry Potter, Gen, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Rebuilding Hogwarts, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), just because he's sad doesn't mean he's unable to do anything okay, or at least competent Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia721/pseuds/cassiopeia721
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up in the forest, somehow still alive. This should probably be a good thing, but unfortunately Harry is certain that he’s still got a horcrux within him, and he’s determined to destroy it- no matter the cost.
Relationships: Death & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Andromeda Black Tonks, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Teddy Lupin & Harry Potter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 166





	1. The Definition of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Let it Happen](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/613408) by Tame Impala. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It was not Death, for I stood up,”
> 
> ―Emily Dickinson

The first thing he knows is the familiar bite of his glasses pressing into his temple.

Harry tries to take a deep breath, and feels his chest catch painfully. There’s a rhythmic pounding in the very center of his ribcage, perfectly timed to his heartbeat. Now that his senses are no longer veiled, Harry is painfully aware of every single protesting centimeter of his sore body. What _happened_?

Harry gives breathing another try, and this time manages a cautious sip of air. There’s a metallic tang to it, and the wind-polished smell of the outside. With his new awareness he can feel the grittiness of the ground against his cheek.

His mind grasps for memories. Something about King’s Cross, as vague as a fever dream… But he wasn’t going to Hogwarts. Ah, Dudley and his friends must have given him a friendly welcome back to Privet Drive. Probably even a concussion, considering the lack of details and the odd feeling in his head. The last time Harry suspected he had one— Aunt Petunia is a mean swing with a frying pan— it didn’t quite feel like this, but he supposes there’s probably some variation. Not every hit to the head is the same, so not every concussion is the same, right? 

The gravelly voice of his paranoia orders him to _get up_ , see what’s going on, but Harry forces himself to stay limp on the damp ground. He can hear swift footsteps and low muttering despite the static hissing in his ears; Dudley’s gang is trying to decide out what to do now that they’ve knocked him out, Harry figures. If he lies still, hopefully with their favorite punching bag unresponsive they’ll go filch cigarettes from the store or something.

To keep himself calm, Harry tries to gather as much information about his surroundings as he can without opening his eyes.

Cold and damp clings to his sleeves and pant legs. His bare stomach scrapes against wet leaves with each inhale. His shirt is rucked up at the stomach, he can feel by the cushioning of cloth against his left rib cage. The denim of one of his jean-pockets is stretched around the lump of his invisibility cloak, and his wand is still in Mad Eye’s holster on his right forearm— not that it will do him any good either way. 

Judging by the damp ground against his cheek and the smell of metal, he’s in the old playground. He’s not sure where the play structure is, but he can almost picture it in his mind, paint peeled by time and Dudley’s grubby fingers.

The throbbing in the center of his ribcage must be the site of a particularly solid punch; Dudley’s boxing lessons have finally paid off. Harry idly wonders what they could have done to make him ache so evenly all over. He imagines them carefully aiming their blows so every bit of him is bruised evenly, like a camper turning their marshmallow so it’s the same shade all around, and stifles a snicker.

Perhaps it’s the ache of a long day’s hard labor. That would explain why his head is both heavy and light, and the persistent buzzing in his ears, like a bee is caught in his ear canal. Dehydration and exhaustion can do that, he knows from long experience.

“My Lord… _my Lord_...” comes a husky female voice. For a dizzying second, Harry assumes it must be some unlucky girlfriend of Dudleys’— but then he realizes the absurdity, both that Dudley would ever have a girlfriend, and that any muggle would call their lover “My Lord.”

Perhaps a character out of one of Aunt Petunia’s romance novels, Harry thinks wryly, suppressing another chortle. 

“That will do,” comes the cutting bite of a high, cold voice, and Harry’s humor is gone at once. His hair is standing up on his arms, and his heart skips a beat, but his mind is so consumed with the white static of a prey animal’s panic that he can’t discern why he’s so afraid. 

“My lord, let me—” the husky voice wheedles. Harry wrestles with his hindbrain, dragging himself back to rationality kicking and screaming. That’s the Dark Lord, his higher cognitive functions inform him crisply, causing the peanut gallery to start gibbering in terror, while meanwhile another, gravelly-voiced, corner bellows, Voldemort at Privet Drive! Dumbledore _said-_

Another (oddly feminine) mental voice cuts in, _Fuck_ Dumbledore, he left you at Privet Drive.

Harry resists the urge to wrinkle his nose, but only just. Sure, Dumbledore left him with the Dursleys, but there’s no need to say that kind of thing about him! He thinks he recalls reading somewhere that one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Harry knows that he’s a bit lacking in respect towards authority, but he’d never realized he was _this_ bad.

Harry shakes away his tangled thoughts like a dog shaking water off his fur. Now is no time for distractions, even with a possible concussion as an excuse.

“—the boy… is he dead?” 

Harry’s mind whites out with animal panic once more, as blank and vivid as a lightning strike.

Maybe he’s talking about someone else, a wobbly voice from the peanut gallery suggests hopefully. 

Harry’s internal paranoia laughs grimly at that idea.

Harry forces himself to concentrate despite his fear and panic. First things first- why would they think he’s dead? Harry trawls his mind for memories, looking for any sort of explanation.

Several flashes come to him all at once. Drawing a single swift breath for courage before swinging the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders, letting the cracked Resurrection Stone slip from between his cold fingers, closing his eyes as Voldemort lifted his wand…

New question, how the _fuck_ is he alive? 

Maybe you’re just too cool to die, the voice from the peanut gallery suggests cheerily.

Harry definitely has a concussion. 

He supposes that isn’t the most pertinent issue considering that he’s supposed to be _dead_ right about now, but oh well.

Despite the frenetic activity in his mind, Harry manages to stay perfectly still. In fact perhaps that’s the reason why he’s managed to stay still: all the movement has gone to his brain, which is metaphorically bouncing off the walls of his skull. Either way, Harry barely dares to even breathe.

The soft rustling of footsteps draws near. Maybe they’re not in Privet Drive after all— unless the playground is absolutely covered with leaves, which wouldn’t happen as the neighborhood takes that sort of thing very seriously.

A slender hand slinks under his shirt, flattening against his ribcage. Harry holds his breath but he can still feel his heart’s steady beating giving him away, bloody traitorous bastard that it is.

There is a whiff of vanilla and jasmine, and he can sense a warm body drawing near to his face. A lock of hair tickles his nose. He tries not to sneeze, because not only would that be stupid it would be humiliating, which is far worse.

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” 

For a moment Harry doesn’t reply, but as the nails begin to dig threateningly into his chest, he breathes back, “Yes.” 

“Dead!” Narcissa Malfoy calls, and cheers erupt, filling the foggy air. 

For some reason that’s really what drives it in for Harry. He’s not dead. He should be dead, but he isn’t. This is just the sort of freak accident that happens to Harry, he thinks hysterically— like that time he had to fight a basilisk or the two (that’s right, _two_ ) times he had to fight a dragon. Except now what he’s fighting doesn’t even have the decency to assume a nice physical form for him to stab a handy sword through.

Ah! That’s a good solution! He’ll just stab himself with the sword of Gryffindor. That’ll take care of things pretty well, won’t it? It’s coated in basilisk venom, so it’ll be able to destroy the horcrux in him easily enough. 

Hagrid lifts him with excruciating gentleness, which makes Harry feel more than a mite bit guilty, but it’s got to be done. Since Voldemort’s fucked up his wand motion or pronunciation or whatever, Harry’s got to get the job done himself. 

Surprising, since according to Harry's plentiful experience with having the killing curse cast at him, Voldemort had an excellent go at it. But there’s no way Voldemort actually hit him with a properly cast killing curse and it just… didn’t work. That defies logic, and not in the fun way magic usually defies it— it defies even magic’s _extremely limited_ semblance of logic.

Now you know how everyone felt when you survived the killing curse back in 1981, a wry voice that sounds suspiciously like Remus’ points out.

Harry groans mentally. He never wants to be forced to sympathize with the very people who labeled him the Boy-Who-Lived. 

It’s a perfectly fi- an imagined female voice starts, offended. Harry slams down his brittle Occlumency shields. He may have a concussion, but now is _really_ not the time, and if his brain would just _shut up for a minute—_

Maybe he’s hallucinating this entire thing, from the voices in his head to the whole Voldemort-hitting-him-with-a-killing-curse thing. Probably he’s lying in the sand at that old muggle playground, drool rolling down his chin. 

Abruptly Harry realizes Voldemort is announcing his death to the castle. Harry wishes unhappily that Tom would wait until he is actually dead to do that; he thinks it’ll be more painful for everyone involved for Harry to appear to have died, be revealed to be alive, and then promptly die again. Properly this time. 

If only Harry had died properly the first time, Harry thinks with a mental sigh.

“ _NO!_ ” 

It sounds like McGonagall’s voice, but in this context it makes about as much sense as a giraffe in a library. McGonagall’s voice is made for scolding, and stern reassurances that everything will be fine if they only keep their heads. It is not made for screams of grief.

“Harry! _Harry_!” comes Hermione’s desperate cry. Ron’s yell of sheer disbelief and pain overlaps with hers and McGonagall’s, forming one aching howl of animal grief. Goddammit, Harry thinks unhappily, this is what he meant about how much better it would be if he had died the first time around.

Voldemort is saying something, but Harry is too busy trying to even out his breaths and steel himself for what he must do to listen. Not that he generally listens to the Dark Bastard either way. 

The smell of smoke and burnt hair reaches him pretty clearly, however. He cautiously cracks open one eye. In the courtyard before him is a pillar of licking fire, at the center of which is Neville. 

Hermione has often scolded Harry for not thinking through his decisions and thus choosing stupid courses of action. Harry would like to clarify that he does think through his decisions, he just takes stupid courses of action anyway. For instance, as he rolls out of Hagrid’s arms, flicks his wrist so his wand falls into his hand and hollers “ _Extinguo_ ” he’s perfectly aware what a terrible decision he’s made.

The silence rings. The crowd gapes at him in disbelief; a slow, fierce smile is spreading across McGonagall’s face. Bloody fucking damn it, Harry thinks with a wince, but he doesn’t have time to think about that now. 

“NEVILLE!” he roars. Neville springs into action, drawing the Sword of Gryffindor and sprinting full tilt toward Nagini. She rears, fang beared, but Neville slices off her head with a single smooth movement.

There’s a strange beauty in it, like some sort of tableau of a fierce, noble warrior. Neville would have made a far better Chosen One than Harry, Harry thinks distantly.

All horcruxes accounted for but one, Harry turns toward Voldemort. Tom’s thin mouth is open slightly in surprise, but as Harry’s gaze nears he draws it shut again. His crimson eyes lock onto Harry’s. The silence is so thick a sharp knife would be necessary to hack through it. 

Harry isn’t very sharp, but he’s got a sort of brute force that works well enough. He slips his wand back up his holster and pushes words out through his dry mouth.

“You missed.” 

Voldemort’s eyes narrow, but he obligingly raises his wand— he’s perfectly happy to kill anything that stands still long enough to let him. Grimly amused at the thought, the barest hint of a smile twists up the corners of Harry’s lips.

Voldemort lines the tip up a centimeter from Harry’s throat. His hand almost seems to be… shaking. Is he afraid? 

“Still afraid of death?” Harry asks. He supposes people fear death the same reason they fear darkness: the sense of the gaping void where they should have comprehension. The unknown.

“Avada Kedavra,” Tom Riddle intones softly, which is answer enough.

The void swallows Harry whole.

And chews him up and spits him out.

Harry groans, blinking black spots back from his vision. His mouth tastes like river water. At once his stomach clenches like a snake trying to swallow a particularly large piece of prey, and he rolls over and vomits onto the cobblestones. He hears someone, he thinks George, say, “holy _fuck_ , he’s alive.”

“My Lord,” Bellatrix pleads. “My Lord, _please_ —” 

Harry stumbles, swaying, to his feet. Across the courtyard a strange grayish shape lies limp on the cobblestones, Bellatrix shaking its sleeve frantically. Harry approaches on unsteady feet. The Death Eaters hanging about scurry back, and even Bellatrix flinches away. 

Harry falls gracelessly to his knees next to Tom Riddle, wincing as they slam into the hard stone. He feels ancient, and he’s only seventeen. Boy-Who-Lived? More like Boy-Who-Creaked.

Harry shakes his head, disturbed at the further evidence of his deteriorating cognitive condition. He presses his fingers to the pale neck and waits, searching for even the faintest sign of life. Finally, he pushes himself back to his feet. “Nothing,” he says softly. In the quiet, everyone can hear his words as clear as a bell.

Bellatrix lets out a wail of rage and disbelief, her face twisting viciously. “ _LIAR!_ ” she shrieks, pointing her wand at Harry. “ _Crucio_!” 

The world splits, and hell rises up to greet him. Hot knives stab into each nerve and his bones char in fire so searing that it feels cold. Harry writhes and spasms mindlessly, a feral animal trying to escape.

And then the pain is gone. Harry blinks back mist, pants out, “Well, that was rude.” Bellatrix doesn’t answer, further signs of her rudeness. Or she might answer— Harry can’t tell, the noise is too muffled around him. The only thing he can hear are the cracks of Apparition as various Death Eaters flee, tails between their legs.

Harry stumbles, wobbling, to his feet. His bleary eyes spot Neville, who oddly appears to be growing shorter. Was he hit by some sort of shrinking curse? Harry tilts his head, peers closer. No, he’s just kneeling on the ground. Why would he be doing that?

Harry shakes his head, gesturing clumsily for Neville to get up, but now Ginny’s kneeling too, and Kingsley and Hagrid and Sprout, and oh no—

“Come on,” Harry protests feebly, his insides twining in and out of each other with awful, sickening guilt. They surely can’t be grateful for him after everyone who died due to his slowness, his incompetence? “There’s no need to make such a fuss—” 

But more and more people keep on kneeling, until Harry is the only one standing in the whole courtyard. Harry has a terrifying suspicion they expect him to make some sort of speech. 

Harry closes his eyes for a split second, feeling the pain aching in his core. He wishes, so desperately, he was the hero they believe he is—the one they deserve. 

“Er. Let’s get everything in order, everyone,” Harry says as firmly as he can manage, and they finally stop with the awful kneeling thing. 

Bloody hell. Harry shakes his head disbelievingly. Clearly the stress of the battle has left more than a couple of people with some screws loose.


	2. Laughter of the Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry recalls his realization that he's a horcrux. 
> 
> Trigger warning: cutting, suicidal ideation, Harry is quite mentally ill in general.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...but a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams  
> his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream  
> his wings are clipped and his feet are tied  
> so he opens his throat to sing.”  
> ―Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird”  
> 

The day Harry realizes he is a horcrux is an ordinary enough one that blends easily into the general chaos that is Harry’s life. It’s the day after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and Harry, Ron and Hermione are hiding out at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. 

During the wedding itself, Harry desperately wished to be doing something more productive than _attending a wedding_. He could be out hunting horcruxes already, or dueling Death Eaters, or even, if he had to stay stationary, practicing Occlumency. As in the previous year and a half, he feels an urgent need to get his shit together― but again, just like during the last year and a half, no matter how much shit he gathers he still doesn’t ever _really_ ever have his shit together.

Now, Harry is curled in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, staring at the cobwebby ceiling and wishing more than anything that he could be back at the wedding, doing nothing more productive than dancing and admiring the silver trays heaped with their piles of tarts and sandwiches almost too delicate and pretty to eat. At the time, it had seemed insipid, silly― but now insipid and silly sounds a far sight better than serious. 

How does Dumbledore expect him to manage any of this? 

Sure, Harry has been studying for the past year and a half with a dedication and focus that even Hermione can’t fault. Harry’s grades have risen, he’s managed to create something at least passingly resembling Occlumency shields in his mind, and he knows as many dueling spells as any young Auror trainee.

Between a childhood spent dodging Dudley and years of intense Quidditch training under Oliver Wood, Harry has excellent reflexes. Add to that a not inconsequential amount of real life experience as well of his own year and a half of dedicated study, and Harry could probably win a duel with most people in his year. 

The issue is, he’s not fighting some fellow seventeen year old. Lord Voldemort is four times his age, and has been studying with the same, if not more, dedication than Harry has for around a _half century_. 

In all honesty, Harry isn’t very naturally intelligent. Flying and DADA are intuitive for him, but they’re the only things that are. Harry has realized that Occlumency as well as school subjects like Potions and Transfiguration could be useful in the fight against Voldemort. As such, he’s worked to improve himself in those respects― but what he has learned he’s forced himself to learn through sheer force of will, and it’s still clunky and unnatural. 

For Voldemort, learning is intuitive, easy, as natural and thoughtless as breathing. While Harry might have to require a practical demonstration to understand a concept for transfiguration, Voldemort would not be constrained by that restraint and thus would be able to learn more obscure skills. While Harry might need two or three weeks of practice to master a new Charm, Voldemort would take only a few days. Not only is Harry behind, he can’t learn fast enough and deeply enough to catch up.

Harry’s few, hard-fought gains were created by himself alone, with little help from others and sometimes outright hinderance. He’d had to argue fiercely with Mrs. Weasley for her to leave him alone and let Mad Eye Moody help him with his dueling. And Umbridge, Lockhart, and all the other useless DA teachers were more obstacles than help as well.

As for Dumbledore himself? 

What Dumbledore gave him to help defeat the feared Dark Lord Voldemort were a few interesting memories about Tom Riddle’s childhood. 

It’s a fucking joke, Harry thinks, stifling a hysterical laugh. As if that will actually _help_ Harry― it’s not as if Harry just needs to mention Tom Riddle’s first year teacher and suddenly Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse will stop hurting, or something. Harry’s laughter dissolves into something closer to panting, and he balls his hands into fists as he starts hyperventilating.

Harry slips one shaking hand into his mokeskin pouch and pulls out a muggle razor. He’d promised Luna that he wouldn’t cut anymore, but it’s not like she’s here to scold him anyway. A few subtle slices and he’s feeling a bit better. Harry wipes the blood off his blade with his fingers and slips the razor away. 

Long ago, Harry learned to relax his muscles right before getting hit. Sometimes accepting the pain makes it hurt less.

It’s a fucking joke, Harry thinks again. This time it’s with the fatalistic cheer of the damned. In hell the only humor is laughing at your own damnation. Hey, everybody else will be trapped in an apocalyptic wasteland with a megalomaniac dictator, but at least Harry will be dead! 

The options are for Harry to defeat Voldemort, or die trying. There’s no way for him to defeat Voldemort, but that still leaves the ‘dying trying’ as a valid option that won’t be _too_ shameful.

The important thing that will really sell the ‘dying trying’ thing as an honorable option is to really try as hard he possibly can, and not die without at least dragging some other Death Eaters down with him. 

Harry rises, lighting his wand with a flick of his wrist and a whisper of “Lumos”. He heads to the library, his steps light. With the arrival of his newly renewed resolve, his earlier tension is gone from his frame and now he can move easily. 

When he stands in the doorway to the library, however, he finds that the pain of the memories are too great. Although Kreacher has grumblingly brought him books from the library when he requests them, Harry hasn’t physically been in the library since the summer between fourth and fifth year. Back when Sirius was still alive― back, too, when the death of Cedric was still a raw wound. 

Harry turns away and wanders blindly through the house, hardly paying attention to where he’s going. When he finally comes back to himself, it’s to find that he’s standing in front of a door. Harry lifts his wand closer and sees a funny little sign, one he almost disregards but for the fact that _Regulus Arcturus Black, R.A.B_ ― he whirls.

“Kreacher!” 

Kreacher appears, the usual desire to spit in Harry’s food and tie his shoes together written all over his crafty face. Harry doesn’t care, however, both because compared to Voldemort Kreacher’s hatred of him is almost charming, and also because his heart pounding is quickly at the thought that something, something might actually increase their very narrow chance of defeating Voldemort. 

“Do you have a locket of Master Regulus’?” 

Kreacher looks up sharply. “What type of locket?” 

“Out of gold, with an S on the front in green stones?” Harry hazards. Kreacher looks impassive, so Harry thinks of the diary and elaborates on what another horcrux might be like. “Might have tried to possess someone at some point― if someone did get possessed they’ve probably start speaking Parseltongue. Connected to Voldemort.” 

Harry suddenly swallows hard. Connected to Voldemort― _he’s_ connected to Voldemort, _and_ he can speak Parseltongue. Bloody fuck, there’s no way, right? 

“Can horcruxes be humans?” he abruptly asks. It’s a useless question; he already knows the answer in his core. It’s just the kind of bullshit that happens to him, because he’s Harry _fucking_ Potter and _of course_ it does.

“Bloody hell,” Harry groans, rubbing at his scar absently. That just brings in another round of cursing, as he realizes what’ll happen if Voldemort finds out. He’ll lock Harry up in some sort of padded room, kept perfectly safe and secure as he kills everyone Harry loves. Exactly the opposite of what Harry had thought before, and about a thousand times worse.

Speaking of, the best course of action is to probably kill himself now, before Voldemort can― no, wait, if he’s the only one he can defeat Voldemort, that means Harry has to be the last horcrux to be destroyed. Harry has to live on to destroy all the other horcruxes, and only _then_ can he finally die trying. Damn it, that’s going to make everything so much more difficult.

Hey, at least it’ll be a two-for-one special, Harry thinks with a snort. Defeat Voldemort, _and_ die trying! 

Kreacher is looking at him rather oddly. A good meter as to insanity is probably if the deranged house elf who’s been stuck alone in a grimy house full of dubiously legal Dark items for the past twenty years or so thinks you’re crazier than he is. Not to worry, Harry thinks he’s well deserving of a mental breakdown, all things considered.

“Kreacher no longer has the locket,” Kreacher says slowly. “But it _was_ a horcrux.” The crotchety old thing is actually volunteering information, a clear sign of the apocalypse. Pigs might as well be flying. He looks at Harry, eyes glittering oddly. “Kreacher promised to destroy it, but he failed.” 

“You had it this entire time?” Harry asks, mind racing. “And no one found out?” 

Kreacher nods, sniffs imperiously. “Kreacher does not give out his Master’s secrets.” 

“Even if someone tried to use legilimency on you?’ 

“Kreacher does not give out his Master’s secrets,” Kreacher repeats.

“Look,” Harry speaks quickly, as though Voldemort could peek into his mind at any time, which he probably can so Harry speaks even faster, “I promise I will destroy all of Voldemort’s horcruxes, including the one that Regulus found. But in order to succeed, Voldemort can’t find out that I’m a horcrux. Is it possible that you could wipe my memory of this, so he can’t find out through me? And keep the secret for me, letting me know so I can destroy the horcrux once all of the others are gone?” 

Kreacher nods slowly. “When should Kreacher tell?” 

“Er― maybe when there’s only one horcrux left?” He’s not sure if that’s quite right, but he doesn’t have any more time to think about it anyway, before Kreacher is raising his hand, pressing it to Harry’s forehead…

Harry blinks awake, cocooned in a sleeping bag on the floor of the drawing room in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He stretches slowly, feeling like he’s missing some sort of realization, a realization that for whatever reason he thought might help him in defeating Voldemort. But no, why would he think that at all? He had an utterly ordinary day yesterday, no interesting revelations at all.


	3. The Beginning of Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy is the one who finds out Harry's intention to kill himself, because Harry's life is just _like that_.
> 
> Tw: cutting, suicidal ideation, suicide notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When you[...] see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight.”  
> ―Thich Nhat Hanh, _Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life_

Harry sits on a closed toilet in a Hogwarts bathroom stall, the Sword of Gryffindor balanced on his knees. On his lap sits _A Compendium of Common Curses and their Counter-Actions_ , with a sheaf of parchment paper spread out on top of it. 

Harry pauses, giving his hand an irritated little shake as the fingers once more go so stiff and tight around the quill that he can’t write properly. His eyes drift to the partition separating his stall from the others, and his lips curve up at the graffiti supporting the D.A. carved into the wood. He should write something up for them, too, once he’s finished with the other letters.

 _I’m sorry, but it has to be this way,_ Harry scrawls off. _I wouldn’t ever do something to hurt you guys like this if it wasn’t necessary. I hope that this explanation will make things easier._ He signs the letter at the bottom, and is busy titling and dating the next piece of parchment when he hears the bathroom door swings open. Harry automatically pulls the invisibility cloak over him and peers carefully through the crack in the stall door. 

Harry recognizes Draco Malfoy’s slim frame, and flinches back, heart pounding as he recalls that same frame bent over a sink, chest expanding and drawing in with rapid, shallow breaths, the caged animal look on his face, _“Cruciatus!”_ and _“Sectumsempra!”_ He presses his eyes shut as if that will veil his mind’s eye and prevent him from seeing again the blood seeping through Malfoy’s shirt, the blood―

The blood beading up on his arms, flowing out of a narrow, stinging cut. Harry cuts a few more lines for good measure and slips the razor blade away, leaning back against the wall with an inaudible sigh of relief. 

“―get those burns?” Narcissa Malfoy is saying in her smooth, high society way of speaking. Harry thinks her voice sounds a bit like silk, fluid and sleek and expensive.

“Crabbe cast Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. I fetched the Weasley cursebreaker, and together we managed to contain it.” Malfoy’s voice sounds hoarse and flat. “Crabbe is dead now. The Fiendfyre consumed him.”

Malfoy working with a Weasley? Harry must have died already, and gone to some alternate universe.

“Foolish boy,” Harry hears Lucius Malfoy mutter to himself. There’s the rhythmic sound of footfalls, like he’s pacing. “As if a Crabbe could ever tame Fiendfyre.”

“Very good, Draco,” Narcissa Malfoy says, ignoring her husband’s commentary. “We can use that to our advantage.”

Lucius Malfoy’s pacing stops. “Use that to our advantage? Surely you don’t mean to try to regain the favor of the Light! The Dark Lord is sure to return, and when he does, we don’t need to be any more in his ill graces than we are already! The Dark Mark may fade, but it will never truly be gone!” There’s a noise of fabric, as though he’s yanked his sleeve up.

“Ah, Lucius, your own arguments betray you,” Narcissa Malfoy replies smugly. Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. What does she mean?

There’s a slight pause, and then the conversation continues.

“Even if the Dark Mark is gone and the Dark Lord will never return, the Light will never accept us,” Lucius Malfoy scoffs. “They’ll be eager to ship as many Death Eaters off to Azkaban as possible.”

“Exactly,” Narcissa Malfoy replies calmly, “Which is why we will be allowing the Light’s fighters through our wards to the many Death Eaters sheltered within Malfoy Manor.”

“You think the Light will be sympathetic towards us even if we betray the others? This isn’t like after the first war. All of the Light’s vaulted patience has run out, and they won’t be lenient this time. All of your scrambling will only be enough to turn life in Azkaban to a sentence of perhaps seventy or eighty years instead, which you well know is enough to be a life sentence in that place!” Lucius Malfoy snarls.

“The Dark Lord asked me if Harry Potter lived, and I lied,” Narcissa Malfoy says crisply. “I could have told the Dark Lord the truth, and the Light would have utterly failed. That should count for something, I should think.” 

There’s a strange snorting sound Harry can’t imagine coming from any of the Malfoys, and then, sounding immeasurably tired, Draco Malfoy says, “There’s no way Potter will testify in your favor, and your efforts will only result in the Malfoys being slandered as liars.” 

Harry pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment, and starts writing rapidly, trying to hammer this all out before his fingers give out on him. 

“The only thing for us to do is to run,” Lucius Malfoy says. “I have some contacts in―”

“No,” Narcissa Malfoy cuts in. If before her voice was silk, now it is silk concealing a blade. “We will cooperate with the new regime, and build a new life. Draco shall not live the rest of his life scrabbling through the muds and marshes of the continent, fleeing Aurors and awaiting the return of your mad master. Our family will not die in shame and squalor.” 

There’s a long moment of silence, during which Harry scrawls out his signature. “Yes, Narcissa,” Lucius Malfoy finally says.

Harry pulls off his cloak and shoves open the bathroom door. The Malfoys flinch back fearfully, Draco Malfoy uttering a bitten off, empathetic, “ _Fuck_ ” As Harry approaches, Draco Malfoy eyes Harry warily, but he doesn’t step back. Harry shoves the piece of parchment into Draco Malfoy’s hands. He doesn’t bother to linger to see the Malfoys’ reaction, going over to use one of the mirrors as a hard surface against which to label the intended recipients of the letter he just finished writing instead. 

“Thank you,” Narcissa Malfoy breathes. Harry glances over his shoulder. Draco Malfoy is staring at the parchment, his mouth open but no words coming out, and Narcissa Malfoy looks almost as shocked, herself. Lucius Malfoy, however, looks angry. 

“A written testimony means nothing,” Lucius Malfoy sneers. “There’s no way they’ll believe the _Boy-Who-Lived_ testified on our behalf. Potter just wants our loyalty without actually doing anything to gain it. If he actually intended for this to mean something, he would just testify in person.” He shoots Harry a challenging look.

“Can’t,” Harry says shortly, moving on to label the next letter.

“And why not?” Lucius Malfoy asks smugly. He seems to think that he’s revealed Harry’s true colors, or some such bollocks.

“I’ll be dead,” Harry says. Just saying the words brings a sweet, cool rush of relief, and the corner of his lips turn up.

“Why the _fuck_ are you killing yourself?” Draco Malfoy spits out abruptly, his voice sounding half bewildered and half angry. “You just won!” 

“In order for Voldemort to stay dead _I_ have to be dead too,” Harry explains succinctly. “Thus…” he gives a little wave of the Sword of Gryffindor. A joyful laugh bubbles up through him at the looks on their faces.

“You’re insane,” Malfoy bites out, his face twisted.

“Maybe a little bit,” Harry shrugs, thinking of the voices inside of his head. “But it’s not like that matters anymore, does it?” He smiles. 

“What about your family?” Narcissa Malfoy asks.

Harry snorts out a laugh. “What family?” He says, mind turning towards the Dursleys.

“Didn’t Andromeda’s daughter just have a young son? Your godson, I believe?” Narcissa Malfoy replies carefully.

A sense of guilt momentarily twists Harry’s gut, but he shakes his head. “Better my godson without his godfather in a free world than trapped with his godfather in a tyranny,” he says. “And if I stay alive, then Voldemort will kill a thousand other people’s godsons.” 

“And why exactly do you need to kill yourself to keep Voldemort dead?” Malfoy asks skeptically. 

“That’s classified,” Harry tells him. He swings the sword from hand to hand, appreciating the way it’s perfectly balanced despite the rubies studding its hilt.

“Right,” Malfoy drawls. “I trust your keepers have agreed to this mad plan?” 

“Keepers?” 

“Granger and the Weasel?” 

Harry’s split second hesitation is somehow enough for them to see the truth.

“They don’t know,” Malfoy groans, shutting his eyes as if he’s deeply frustrated. “But you trust them, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry says cautiously, sensing he’s being tricked in some way. 

“So you could divulge this classified information to them, couldn’t you?” Malfoy says. “And if you do really have a need to do this, you wouldn’t mind if Mother fetched them for you?” 

“Er,” Harry manages. He’s been talked into a trap, he can tell. “Sure.” He’d prefer to tell them by letter, but he supposes informing them in person is less cowardly.

Malfoy nods to his mother, and she hurries out of the bathroom. Harry punishes himself for his mistake by testing the sharpness of the blade on the pad of his finger, hissing in mixed appreciation and pain as it bites through his skin. 

Harry glances up to see Malfoy staring at him, his brow furrowed slightly. "Still perfectly sharp," Harry tells him cheerfully. "Those goblins sure are good at making swords."

“You say you’re killing yourself because that’s the only way the Dark Lord can be defeated,” Malfoy speaks slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. “So if it turns out you don’t _need_ to kill yourself to defeat the Dark Lord, will you still kill yourself?” 

“What, disappointed I won’t be there to testify at your trial?” Harry jokes.

Malfoy isn’t laughing. “So you’ll abandon your friends, your godson?” 

Guilt wells up in Harry, tasting sour in his mouth. He can’t abandon Teddy, can’t leave him alone and neglected. “If I don’t need to do so in order to defeat Voldemort, I won’t kill myself before testifying at your trial, how about that?” he plays it like a joke, but Malfoy still doesn’t laugh.

“If you really do mean it, swear it on your magic,” Malfoy says, pale eyes boring into him. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Sure. I swear on my magic that if I don’t need to do in order to defeat Voldemort, I won’t kill myself before testifying at your trial.” He gasps as a band of heat tightens around the wrist of each hand, before slowly fading away so it’s barely noticeable. 

“Now if you break that vow, you’ll lose your magic,” Malfoy tells him. 

Harry shrugs. Even after Kreacher wiped his memory, some part of him knew this entire time that he was a horcrux, and that same part assures him that he’s still a horcrux now. It won’t make any difference.

The door to the bathroom swings open, and Ron and Hermione enter. Ron’s face is smeared with blood and dirt, and there’s a gash on his forehead. There’s blood caked into some of Hermione’s hair, but at the sight of Harry, a tremulous smile blossoms across her face.

“Harry,” Hermione breathes, and her eyes fill with tears. She rushes forward, pulling him into a hug. Despite himself, Harry can feel himself relaxing into her comforting warmth, muscles that he hadn’t realized were tense loosening.

“Merlin, mate, I’m glad you’re alive,” Ron says, each word dropping with the heavy weight of truth. Despite Ron’s no doubt good intentions, the words make Harry’s stomach twist with guilt. Over Hermione’s shoulder, Malfoy raises an eyebrow pointedly at Harry. 

After a long moment, Hermione pulls back to hold him at arm’s length. She inspects Harry critically, clucking at all of his little scrapes and bruises. Harry puts up with her gaze good-naturedly, knowing she’s assuring herself that Harry is relatively uninjured. 

Once Hermione is done, Ron pulls him into a hug of his own, giving his hair a brotherly ruffle as he does so. “We were looking for you everywhere, mate,” he says. 

Hermione dabs at the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her grimey hoodie. “Neville was the last one who’d seen you, and even he wasn’t sure where’d you gone. I get that you needed to get away from all of those crowds, but in the future you could tell us where you’re going.” Even though Harry can tell she’s trying to be scolding, the smile on her face is giving her away.

“You should really get checked out by a healer,” she adds, frowning. “You got― got hit with a Killing Curse, after all…” her eyes fill up with tears once more, and she returns to blotting at her eyes with her sleeve. Next to her, Ron nods in agreement.

“Er…” Harry licks his wounded lips. “About that…”

Harry slowly begins to explain the whole affair. It takes him a little while to even find a thread to begin with. In the end he decides to start with Snape’s memories in the Pensieve. He speaks about Snape’s feelings towards Lily, his rivalry with the Marauders, his association with Mulciber and Avery. He explains Snape’s actions ending their friendship, and then Snape’s decision to spy for Dumbledore in exchange for Lily’s safety, Dumbledore’s decision to plan his own death to spare Malfoy from becoming a murderer― Harry absently notes that Malfoy is making a most un-Slytherin-like choking noise― and then finally, obliquely so as not to reveal anything untoward to the Slytherins, Harry speaks of the horcrux within him, and Dumbledore’s and Snape’s plans concerning it.

By the time he has finished, his throat is raw and dry as a bone. The faces around him are transformed by shock and disbelief; Lucius Malfoy is shaking his head and muttering about Severus Snape’s loyalty and devotion to the Dark, and Ron is pale as a sheet beneath his freckles.

“You’re telling me,” Ron says at long last, “That this entire time Dumbledore planned for you to die?” 

Harry nods.

Ron’s face twists in anger and disgust. “Then it’s a good thing the old bastard is dead, or I’d strangle him with his own beard.” Harry stares in shock, but Draco Malfoy bursts out laughing. Once Malfoy’s managed to gain control of himself, he smirks at Harry, as if his point has been proven right.

Shaking his head, Harry turns towards Hermione. He expects her to admonish Ron, but to his deep surprise she’s nodding, her face set in a fierce expression. “Oh, Harry,” she says. “There had to be another way… If only I had known, I could have done research…”

Abruptly, Harry feels a rush of anger. “You think Dumbledore didn’t do that?” he asks sharply. “You think Dumbledore didn’t research every possible solution before coming to this one? Yes, it’s too bad that I have to die, but sometimes, you need to make sacrifices for the greater good!” 

The other two don’t reply, although Harry suspects they still disagree with him. Ron looks at him with an expression of deep sadness and sympathy, and Hermione slips her arm through the loop of his and gives him a comforting squeeze.

“At least it’s over, now,” Ron says quellingly.

“Er…” Harry hedges. He can feel Hermione stiffen beside him. See, this was why he wanted to just leave a letter. Harry sends a glare towards Malfoy, but he’s just smiling smugly.

“Mate…” Ron begins warningly. “You better not be saying what I think you’re saying.” 

“Well, I’m not dead, am I?” Harry bursts out. “I mean, I tried to get Voldemort to hit me with a Killing Curse, but it must not have worked correctly, or something. And if I’m alive, then that means _he’s_ alive, too.” Harry’s chest heaves with emotion. 

Ron snorts. “I’m pretty sure it worked correctly. I’ve got about a thousand people willing to testify that Voldemort hit you with a killing curse. You were flat out on the ground, not breathing, for a good forty seconds. I think you died and came back, mate. Don’t ask me how in Merlin’s underwear drawer you did it, but you came back.” 

“Well, I’m alive now,” Harry replies stubbornly. “I need to―”

“Isn’t it possible that the h― the uh―” she glances at the Malfoys, “ _you-know-what_ died, not you, and that’s how you came back?” Hermione cuts in abruptly. There’s the light of inspiration in her eyes. “That could explain all of it― and I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore suspected this would happen, and that’s why he went along with the whole thing.” 

“Try to speak Parseltongue, mate,” Ron says encouragingly. “If Hermione’s right― and I’ll bet my last galleon she is― then that’ll prove it.” 

Harry lets a breath out slowly, trying to picture a snake in front of him. “Hello,” he tries cautiously.

“English, mate.” 

“Hello,” Harry tries again.

“Still English.” Ron is starting to smile. 

“Hello,” Harry tries.

“Definitely English.” Ron is full on grinning.

“Do you think you could just summon a snake for me?” Harry snaps finally. 

“ _Serpensortia_ ,” Malfoy incantates from where he’s leaned casually up against the bathroom wall. A thin green-brown grass snake emerges from the tip of his wand and lands on the marble with a thud. The action sends a rush of deja vu, almost nostalgia, though Harry. He misses when his biggest problem was his petty rivalry with Malfoy.

Harry turns toward the snake. “Hello,” he says. 

“I think we can conclude that you can’t speak Parseltongue anymore,” Hermione says, smiling.

“Let me try just one more time,” Harry pleads. There’s no way he isn’t a horcrux. He can feel it, down in his core― the darkness of Tom Riddle clinging to him. 

“I suppose,” Hermione shrugs.

Harry looks straight at the snake and takes a deep breath. “ _Shtshāāā_ ” he says. He can feel Ron and Hermione flinch on either side of him. Draco Malfoy and his mother have both gone very white, and Lucius Malfoy has leaned forward, his eyes wide with either fear or awe, Harry can’t tell.

“And it’s exactly the same?” Hermione confirms, her lips trembling.

“No, actually,” Harry admits. “I… I don’t hear English anymore. I could hear what noise I was making… I just also knew what it meant. Like if I was speaking French, or something.” He turns back toward the snake. “ _Щ’phā’shhīkkshhh _,” he hisses. He can hear himself hissing, yet at the same time he knows that that this hissing means “Can you understand me?”__

“Right of conquest,” Draco Malfoy speaks from his spot against the wall. 

“What?” Harry asks, turning. 

“Upon the defeat of a powerful Dark Lord, some of the powers often transfer to whoever defeated him. Dark Magic bends to power, after all.” Draco Malfoy’s lips quirk. “Through this transference, the powers will often change slightly as well.” 

Hermione’s eyes have gone wide. “Fascinating,” she murmurs.

“So this means Harry _isn’t_ a horcrux?” Ron confirms.

“Potter isn’t a horcrux,” Malfoy confirms.

“Alright, mate!” Ron says, high fiving Harry and giving Hermione a celebratory peck on the forehead.

“And Harry, even if you do still have the horcrux, I won’t let you kill yourself,” Hermione tells him firmly, even as she presses a kiss to Ron’s cheek. “I’ll do research on it, see if there are any other options. There has to be something that Dumbledore overlooked, some theory he didn’t come up with…” 

“ _Professor_ Dumbledore,” Harry corrects wearily, feeling his lips twitch slightly at the irony. There’s an odd ache in his core, almost like disappointment.

Hermione laughs quietly, rubbing snot from the tip of her nose. “ _Professor_ Dumbledore. But my point still stands.” 

This is Professor Dumbledore we’re talking about,” Harry says. “I mean, he found all those uses for dragon blood and everything. I don’t really think he would have overlooked something.” Malfoy snorts, but when Harry quickly glances over, he doesn’t say a word. 

“The seven uses of dragon blood, yes,” Hermione tells him quietly. She sighs. “He was one of the greatest minds Wizarding Britain had, but everyone makes mistakes, and Professor Dumbledore was human, too.” 

“I don’t think he would have let himself make a mistake when it came to something as big as this,” Harry replies curtly. He still thinks he should kill himself, just in case, but he knows Ron and Hermione― and, of all people, _Malfoy_ ― will start arguing immediately if he proposes that. 

Hermione seems to give up on persuading him, instead just shrugging and going quiet. She burrows in under one arm, so that one wild curl bounces right in front of his nose. “Hey, you don’t have a― _you-know-what_ ,” she says, obviously trying to cheer him up.

“Yep,” Harry says as cheerily as he can manage. Malfoy conceals a laugh by coughing into his arm. 

“I wish I could talk to him,” Harry says after a long moment. Harry imagines the familiar, grandfatherly twinkle in those blue eyes, the wrinkles Dumbledore’d get when he smiled.

“We could visit his portrait?” Hermione suggests timidly.

“It might help,” Harry allows.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Ron says, pulling Harry and Hermione to their feet. 

As they’re about to leave, Hermione pauses by the door. She takes a deep breath slowly, then turns back around and makes direct eye contact with Narcissa Malfoy. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy, for fetching us,” she says formally. Her composure breaks somewhat. She swallows. “If you hadn’t…” She trails off. The unspoken words _Harry would be dead_ hang in the air. Harry resists the urge to snort. And what would be so bad about that? Then they'd know for certain that Voldemort was dead, instead of just _hoping_ Harry could only speak Parseltongue through right of conquest, and not because he still had a horcrux. The whole thing seems very fishy to Harry, frankly.

Narcissa Malfoy nods back, looking gracious. 

Draco Malfoy flicks his eyebrows up challengingly at Harry, like he’s expecting a thank you too, but Harry just glares back. Malfoy may have technically saved Harry’s life, but Harry’s life didn't _need_ saving, _thank-you-very-much_. Plus, saving his life isn't proper schoolyard rival behavior. Harry just wishes Malfoy would get back to hexing him in the halls instead of foiling his attempts to kill himself.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Harry says, and they head out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will probably be twice a week, Wednesdays and another day but I'm not sure which one yet.


	4. Immolation by Dragon Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry recalls an unorthodox strategy he considered using for the Triwizard Tournament. 
> 
> Cw: ableism resulting from Harry’s valuing himself only for his usefulness, idealization of suicide, suicidal ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You taught me to exist without gratitude.  
> You ruined my manners toward God:  
> ‘We’re here simply to wait for death;  
> the pleasures of earth are overrated.’”
> 
> ―“Having It Out With Melancholy” by Jane Kenyon

Sitting in the library and staring despondently at the worn wooden table, Harry reflects that the last few weeks have been some of the worst of his life. That’s saying something considering the competition includes the three weeks Harry spent locked in the cupboard when he was ten, the stretch of time during first year just before the end of the year exams when he was sure Voldemort was going to pop up out of nowhere at any moment, and the general suffering that was third year. Still, Harry thinks the last few weeks just might top even those.

It all began when Harry’s name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire. Honestly, before then, Harry was having a pretty good year. Sure, life at the Dursleys’ had been as miserable as usual, but things had turned up soon after, and things had continued on a good streak for a while.

Instead of being cooped up in Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry had been allowed to spend the last bit of his summer break happily romping around the Burrow with the Weasleys, punting gnomes out of the garden with Ron, and watching Fred and George develop Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products. The Quidditch Cup, in spite of the nasty ending, had been a honestly rather inspiring experience- seeing professional Quidditch players flying around had only increased Harry’s love of the sport, and he was itching to try out some new maneuvers as soon as he got back to Hogwarts.

Additionally, Hogwarts itself was much improved this year, in Harry’s opinion. The Triwizard Tournament was going to happen at Hogwarts, which was sure to be interesting. The best thing about it was that Harry wouldn’t be involved in it- finally, this year, he would be allowed to sit back and relax, enjoying the action without actually having to be a part of it. 

Besides that, the Dementors were gone, and Harry knew that there was no dangerous convict out to get him- in fact, Harry actually had a _godfather_ to protect him now! The very thought filled Harry up with warmth and lightness. He had long daydreamed about an adult appearing to rescue him from the Dursleys, and now his daydreams had as good as came true! Not just that, but Ron and Hermione had finally gotten over their arguments around Scabbers and Crookshanks, and people at Hogwarts generally seemed to like him or at least tolerate him. 

However, the moment the Goblet of Fire spit out his name, everything was ruined. Now, Ron is certain that Harry actually did put his name in and they’re longer speaking to each other, the rest of the school believes he’s a fame-greedy cheater and hates him, and his godfather- well, Sirius’ support actually hasn’t changed, but that of his teachers sure has.

When Harry’s name was drawn, not even the teachers believed his claims that he hadn’t put his name into the Goblet of Fire. Professor Sprout, who is usually kind to all of her students, has been refusing to call on Harry in class or even acknowledge his existence. Professor McGonagall has given him several detentions for breaking the rules despite the fact that he didn’t put his name in, and Snape honestly seems to hate Harry more than usual- a real feat considering his baseline. Even Dumbledore seems a bit skeptical of Harry’s claims, and is far cooler with him that he has been in the previous years.

The more research Hermione does, the more both of them are persuaded of how truly terrifying the Triwizard Tournament will be. Hermione has been studying the previous tournaments, trying to spot patterns in their tasks. So far, the only pattern they’ve spotted is how absolutely dreadfully dangerous all the tasks are. Taming Fiendfyre, a cursed, impossible to control firestorm that can be summoned with a spell, fighting a chimera, achieving flight without a broom- all of these are past tasks that the contestants had to attempt.

Still, Harry must have subconsciously thought that they wouldn’t make the tasks so ridiculously dangerous this time around, because when he finds out the truth of the first task, he’s shocked and dismayed despite himself.

Dragons. Of all things, _dragons_. The very memory of them makes Harry’s stomach churn like he’s going to throw up. They’re enormous almost beyond comprehension, with thick scales that overlap to form an armor no mere spell could pierce. That’s not even taking into account their hungry, gaping maws lined with vicious fangs, which every so often let out a burst of white-hot flame, or release a horrible, ear-splitting noise, something in between a furious roar and an alley-cat’s nervy yowling… Harry shudders, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms to distract himself from his thoughts.

Hermione is determined that Harry should survive, but she’s the only one. The teachers _know_ that Harry’s a mere fourteen year old, and more than that, a terribly average one when it comes to school. He doesn’t have any skills that would be useful for _dragon fighting_. They could have easily prevented Harry from being forced to compete, and yet none of them even bothered to _try_. The only logical conclusion is that they must believe he entered himself, and that if he dies or is terribly injured, that’ll only be what he deserves.

The school seems to have the same view. Just about every student in the castle is wearing the Potter Stinks badges Malfoy has made, showing that they agree with him wholeheartedly, and Malfoy has explicitly said he hopes to see Harry die in the tournament- preferably as painfully, publicly, and pitifully as possible.

Funnily enough, Harry isn’t scared of dying. He’s more scared of being gravely hurt, changed in some sort of way that he’s even less useful, even more abnormal- even more of a freak. If the dragon blinds him with a burst of dragon fire, if he loses a hand or a leg… the thought fills him with an awful, terrible fear. The Dursleys will hate him even more if he can’t do chores, and more than that he’ll be of no more use or interest to Dumbledore, he probably won’t be able to go to Hogwarts anymore since how can they teach someone without a hand or unable to see, even Sirius will quickly get tired of him… Harry bites his cheek hard, trying to slow his whirling thoughts.

Hermione will get tired of him, too- she cares so much about grades and school. What she will she think if dragon fire takes his hand, and he can no longer write essays, or if dragon fire takes his sight, and he can no longer read books? Harry is already stupid enough that she sometimes gets frustrated with him, Harry can tell- if he gets anymore useless, she’ll probably run out of patience for him entirely, just like Ron has.

Harry turns his gaze to the other side of the table. A tall, wobbling stack of books about dragons sits on one side- _Men Who Love Dragons Too Much_ , _The Authoritative Register of the Zootomy of Dragons_ , and _The Dangers of Dragons_ , among others. On the other side is a discarded stack of spellbooks- charms, transfiguration, dueling spells, and anything else that Hermione thought might have the narrowest chance of being useful. In between the two stacks is Hermione herself, bent over _Historical Accounts of Attempted Dragon Slayings_ , scribbling notes furiously onto a roll of parchment. A wild, frizzy curl bounces inches from her ink pot, and as she shifts it very nearly drops into it. 

As if she senses Harry’s gaze, Hermione begins to speak, even though she doesn’t glance up. “I’m not sure how useful any of this will be,” she says anxiously. “A lot of the accounts seem to be of frankly dubious quality, even the author agrees. For instance, in the Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh tricks the dragon, and then, of all things, _punches_ it before decapitating it- whereas dragons as we know aren’t intelligent enough to be fought using trickery, and would never be harmed by a mere punch! And in Fáfnismál Sigurd stabs Fáfnir in the heart, whereas we know from the book of anatomy that dragon’s armor is actually thicker over the heart. The only thing that might be useful is in the Golden Fleece, where St. Silvester uses words supposedly given to him by St. Peter in a dream to bind a dragon. The author thinks that could be a euphemism for magic, but we have no idea what spell St. Silvester would have used, or what the incantation and wand motion would be.” 

Harry isn’t sure why Hermione seems to think he knows anything more than she does. He shrugs and turns his gaze despairingly back to _Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed_. He skims his gaze idly down the index, although he doesn’t think he’ll find anything useful here. Stick-fast hex- that will keep the dragon from approaching closer, but not protect Harry from the heat of its flames- the toenail growing hex, which Harry sees no use for at all- the stinging jinx, which Harry imagines will just make the dragon angrier… in fact, Harry thinks all of these will just make the dragon angrier. 

Fighting the dragon at all won’t actually defeat it, it’ll just make it angrier and thus make Harry’s death hurt more, or if he doesn’t die make him more wounded and useless. The more he fights, the more likely he’ll get his legs burned off or his eyes blinded or his hands devoured by flame. Even if he dodges, that will only prevent him from dying and not from getting hurt- and Harry’s already established that he’d prefer dying to being useless. Then, logically, the best approach is to go into the arena without any intention to fight at all.

He must have spoken some of his thoughts allowed, because Hermione has glanced up sharply. “What do you mean by that?” She asks heatedly. 

For some reason, even though Hermione’s gaze should probably cow Harry, it just makes the idea more appealing. There’s a nobility to it, he thinks- a sort of stark beauty in the image. He imagines himself striding into the arena with his head held high, letting his wand slip easily from his hand. Letting himself be consumed by dragon fire, immolated, a silence protest against the impossibility of the entire situation.

At Harry’s lack of response, Hermione frowns. “Harry, that’s really unhealthy-” she starts to scold him. 

“What?” Harry asks defensively. “I’m just joking! There’s nothing wrong with joking, right?” 

Shaking her head, Hermione gets up and moves to leave. As she does, she snaps, “Can’t you spare a moment to think about how those types of ‘jokes’ make me feel?” 

Harry stares after her in shock, his mind echoing with her words. 

Over the next few days, Hermione doesn’t speak to Harry, but Harry still sees Hermione reading seemingly endless stacks of books concerning dragons, and dueling hexes, and healing spells, and she often glances at him, as though she’s worried. At long last, seeming to bear it any longer, she approaches him during breakfast. 

“Have you come up with a plan?” She asks cautiously. 

“Yep,” Harry says, taking a big bite of an apple. “I’m going to summon my invisibility cloak, and then sneak past the dragon while it’s distracted by my Patronus.” 

Hermione doesn’t speak for a moment, her mouth slacked slightly in surprise. Then she beams, and hurries to sit next to him. “That’s an excellent plan, but I think you might be able to improve it by…” 

When it comes time for the first task, Harry’s Patronus is so solid that even when the dragon closes its toothy mouth around it, it stills holds up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be Wednesdays and Fridays.


	5. Flesh and Blood and Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry speaks with Dumbledore's portrait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe the ultimate wound is the one that makes you miss the war you got it in.”  
> ―Sebastian Junger

Things have changed drastically since Harry visited the Headmaster's Office only a few hours ago. Several of the windows along the outside wall have been smashed in, and there’s a suspicious red-brown stain covering a section of the stones. Additionally, the gargoyle that usually guards the entrance is standing several feet away from its usual spot, and although it is technically upright, it's leaning lopsidedly to the side, as though exhausted. The carved eyes are shut, and it doesn't react to their approach. 

Being careful not to disturb it, they tramp up the spiral staircase. Harry thrusts open the door, and then immediately flinches away, buffeted back by a wave of noise. His wand, he finds, is in his hand, although he does not recall flicking his wrist to summon it. 

“It’s alright, Harry, it’s just the portraits,” Hermione tells him. Harry looks, and sees that she’s right. 

The noise, which Harry had assumed was some sort of hidden Death Eater bursting out to curse him, is actually applause. The portraits hung along the walls are clapping as hard as their painted hands allow. Their jubilation is very much apparent; Harry sees Eupraxia Mole wiping her wet eyes with a painted handkerchief, Quentin Trimble is waving his funny-looking hat, and Edessa Skanderberg vigorously shaking Iola Silkbeard’s hand, although they had been blood enemies in life.

Harry’s eyes catch on a portrait which is so new that the untarnished frame gleams. Severus Snape’s stern face looks a bit less bitter than it usually does, and he gives Harry a curt nod. Harry returns the nod, and turns toward Dumbledore’s portrait.

Dumbledore looks much like he did in life, aside from the fact he is weeping, which Dumbledore in life was not overly prone to doing. The long silver hair, the crooked nose balancing his signature half-moon upon one of the lopsided spots where it looks like the nose has been broken, the crow’s eye wrinkles at the corners of his brilliant blue eyes denoting a lifetime of both laughter and worrying, all of these details are achingly familiar to Harry. Dumbledore is wearing a robe of pale lavender, and a matching silken ribbon ties his braided beard together. Right next to the slim fingers of his scarless, untainted right hand is a small porcelain bowl containing what Harry dimly recognizes to be Jelly Babies. All in all, the sight makes Harry ache, deep inside.

He’s not sure if the ache is grief, exactly, for at the same time he feels anger's heat, and also a love so strong it hurts. A love for the little details of Dumbledore, the grandfatherly wrinkles, the scholarly books arrayed around him, the muggle candies― all of it so _Dumbledore_ that it makes Harry ache. At the same time, however, he feels a strange hatred for some other details― for the tears sliding down Dumbledore’s wrinkles cheeks, for instance. Why is Dumbledore crying, when Harry is the one who has suffered? 

Harry takes the strange anger for further evidence that he may very well still have the horcrux within him, and that Malfoy is wrong. And even if it isn’t, it’s probably a good idea for Harry to die anyway. Harry is just too great a risk to be left alive―

“Harry,” comes Hermione’s voice, “you wanted to ask Professor Dumbledore some questions, right?” 

“Oh, right,” Harry says, but he can’t manage to push a single question out. He has so many questions he doesn’t know where to begin, yet at the same time he isn’t sure if he’ll ever to be able to give voice to them. 

At last, Harry asks, “How did I survive?” For some reason, Hermione is glaring at him, but Harry ignores that.

“I believe, my boy, that it has something to do with the fact that he took your blood, your blood which of course also contained your mother’s protection. He rebuild his living body with it, and, I believe, by doing so, tethered you to life for as long as he himself lived in that form.” 

“Right,” Harry says slowly. According to that, he thinks, he should be able to die now, since Voldemort’s old body has been destroyed. He now exists as only a shade, and shades can’t retain other people’s blood.

“Oh, I see!” Hermione gasps. “Would that be why his wand didn’t work against Harry’s?” 

“Very good, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore smiles. “It is indeed part of it, I believe. Not only Harry’s blood within him, but also the prophecy and, most importantly, the fact that Harry and Voldemort’s wands were twins, in possession of a core from the same phoenix.” 

Dumbledore shifts in his painted chair, getting more comfortable. “There is a theory favored among wandmakers that wands with cores from the same creature are unwilling to seriously harm― or at least kill― each other, much like people are unwilling and unable to intentionally hurt themselves.” 

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his shoes. 

“It’s an unfortunately unsubstantiated theory, as twin cores are too rare for it to be tested, but young Harry here has happily proved it right,” Dumbledore finished, turning his luminous smile towards Harry. 

“Makes sense,” Ron nods. “Good bit of luck there, mate.” He claps his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry avoids flinching, but only just. To him, this only seems to be more confirmation of the sick, twisted connection between him and Voldemort― two sides of the same coin, twin wands, Harry still carrying Voldemort’s horcrux, his _darkness_ , within him. 

“It is merely a theory,” Dumbledore warns, spreading his hands out in a more elegant version of a shrug. “But,” he smiles happily, “My theories are generally right.” 

“If Harry’s wand was so powerful that it could beat back Voldemort’s killing curse, how come a ricocheted Blasting Curse was enough to break it?” Hermione asks curiously, her body bent forward in a posture Harry recognizes from years of classes with her. 

“It was only so abnormally powerful in that single respect. It’s no Elder Wand, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore chuckles, “Only a loyal wand generally like any other, though with a few quirks in some specific areas.” He turns his gaze towards Harry, he says, “Speaking of the Elder Wand, I would advise you to be very cautious in respect to it.” 

“Oh!” Harry starts. “Yes, I left it with Voldemort’s body. I figure that should break it’s power, shouldn’t it? If I don’t die at an enemy’s hand, that is?” He expects Dumbledore to nod and agree, but instead he shakes his head slightly, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously behind his half-moon spectacles. 

“Look in your cloak-pocket,” he says. “Just a little theory of mine, dear boy, but I'd suggest taking a look into your cloak-pocket.” 

“What?” 

“Look in the pocket of your Invisibility Cloak,” Dumbledore repeats, his eyes twinkling and a knowing expression on his face. 

“My Invisibility Cloak doesn’t have a pocket,” Harry says, but he nonetheless pulls the lump of his Invisibility Cloak out of his jean-pocket, and shakes the fluid folds of silver fabric out. As he does, he is surprised to see a pocket on the Cloak that he has never noticed before. It’s not so very surprising, however, for the pocket is small, too small to noticed easily and too small, as well, to ever hold a wand, or anything except perhaps a few pieces of spare change.

Still, Harry obligingly digs his fingers in, and is surprised to find his fingers curling around knotted, slender wood. He pulls upwards, and finds in his hand a wand of pale, knotted wood, as long as his forearm, and heavy, Harry thinks, with the weight of its origin. 

“How?” Harry asks inarticulately. 

Dumbledore hums, looking satisfied at having his little theory proven right. “The Elder Wand does not like being without a master,” he says. “It craves blood, and the only way it can taste that is by having a master.”

Harry frowns, not liking the thought. He holds the wand in his two fists, and with surprisingly little effort, snaps it. The room echoes with gasps; even Snape’s mouth falls open slightly. 

“Wait― is that the―” Ron stutters.

“Not anymore,” Harry replies shortly, and then snaps it twice more, so that the Elder Wand is in four pieces. There are four windows in Dumbledore’s office, each one facing one of the four directions, and he throws each piece out one of the four windows, banishing each as hard as he can with Malfoy’s wand as he does so. 

Ron gapes at him. “Mate, you know if you didn’t want it, you could have always given it to me.” 

Hermione frowns. “I know you’re joking, Ron, but I do think Harry’s right. The Elder Wand’s not safe to just keep like that. I will say however,” she turns to Harry, “I would have liked to have gotten a look at it before you threw it away. I wonder, for instance what type of core it would have had…” 

“Thestral hair,” Dumbledore speaks. “It has a core of thestral hair, just as the Invisibility Cloak is woven of the very same material. I took the opportunity to undertake a bit of study of the two Hallows while they were in my care.” He winks at Hermione. 

“Thestral hair,” Hermione murmurs, her eyes glazed. “I wonder…” she shakes her head forcefully. “There was another question I wanted to ask you, sir.” 

“Ask away,” Dumbledore smiles, folding his hands in his lavender sleeves.

“How do we know for sure if the horcrux in Harry is gone?” Hermione asks.

Dumbledore sighs. “I think in this matter, only time will tell. Human horcruxes are utterly uncharted territory, and there is no spell nor potion to identify them.” 

Ron frowns, and bursts out, “But surely you have a way! You’re _Dumbledore_! If there’s isn’t a spell or a potion, can’t you just develop one?” 

Dumbledore shakes his head apologetically. “My dear Mr. Weasley, I’m sorry. I’m merely a portrait― I may have the knowledge that Professor Dumbledore accumulated in life, but I’m not truly alive. I cannot learn or create, because that is something that only living beings can do.”

Harry nods. He’s disappointed, but not surprised. This confirms his earlier thoughts― that it’s best for Harry to die. If there’s no known way to be utterly certain of if he’s a horcrux or not, it’s evident that the best course of action is to err on the safe side and destroy any possible horcruxes.

“Well, thank you for your help anyway,” Hermione says. 

They’re quiet as they exit the Headmaster’s office. The gargoyle seems to have woken, although it’s still groggy and only makes an incomprehensible sort of groaning noise when they pass. Peeves is sitting on the ceiling in the corridor, muttering to himself as he scribbles on the ceiling next to him. “Fun… that rhymes with ‘the one’…” When they exit, however, he bounds to his feet. “My Lord! Sire! Your honor! Your grace! I beg a favor, if your Highness would deign to listen!” 

“What do you want?” Harry asks, turning towards Peeves. 

Peeves grins. “Might you force the Bloody Baron to depart to the other side?” he asks hopefully. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively when Harry doesn’t immediately respond.

“I don't even have my NEWTs,” Harry tells Peeves at last, tiredly. "What makes you think I could exorcise the Bloody Baron?" Shaking his head, he turns away. “C’mon guys, let’s go.” 

“Think about it!” Peeves calls, cackling.

Light is beginning to slip into the Great Hall, and the ceiling is awash with the purples and pinks and golds of dawn. Dust and debris covers the floor; all of the tables have been overturned and leaned against the windows in makeshift barricades. A clump of Hogsmeade residents, still in their night clothes, appear to be trying to get them down and rearranged into their normal formation, with limited success. For now, everyone is sitting or standing on the floor.

Harry doesn’t think to pull on his Invisibility Cloak, so when they enter the Great Hall, it’s to a great cheer. Most people hang back, watching him with eyes widened with awe and a bit of fear, but some of the braver people rush forward to shake his hand, clasp his shoulder, speak to him.

Ginny presses a kiss to his cheek, Neville asks if he managed to do whatever task it was that he’d borrowed the Sword of Gryffindor for, Hagrid pulls him into a hug, Nearly Headless Nick briskly pumps Harry’s hand up and down, and Charlie gives Harry an affectionate noogie― all at the same time.

An ethereal voice from somewhere outside of the mob of people speaks. “I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me.” 

The clump of people retreat sheepishly, giving Harry a last couple of claps on the shoulder, or in Ginny’s case, a last kiss to the cheek. 

“Thanks, Luna,” Harry says with a relieved smile. 

Luna smiles back, tilting her head slightly as she regards Harry. Her pale blue eyes look far too perceptive to Harry. “Are you alright, Harry?” 

“Fine,” Harry says, forcing a smile. “Any news?” He asks to distract her. 

“Professor McGonagall is going to address us in a few minutes,” Luna says. “Kingsley Shacklebolt has been appointed temporary Ministry of Magic― he Flooed over to start straightening things out just a half-hour or so ago. But the real news of the hour is that Harry Potter survived a killing curse for the second time.” She smiles. “Have you heard?” 

Harry doesn’t respond. His eyes have caught on a familiar figure. He draws his wand without even thinking, fully prepared to take Bellatrix down― and then he sees who’s in her lap, and his heart stops. 

Tonks’ hair is the color of a shirt washed so many times that all pigment has faded from it. Her face is vacant and unknowing, an empty shell shed by a creature grown beyond its old home. On a sheet next to her lies Remus Lupin, almost within the grasp of her limp reaching hand.

Harry closes his eyes, pressing back against the pain constricting his heart, consuming his soul. When Harry opens them, he sees the person holding Tonks is not Bellatrix Lestrange as he had presumed. The hair is auburn instead of black, the eyes hazel instead of deep, murky brown, the cheeks fuller and with more color. This is, Harry realizes, Andromeda Tonks.

A deep pain thrums in Harry’s belly. Teddy will grow up like him, the only one knowing his parents― the only real family― his godfather, just like Harry. If Harry kills himself, he won’t just be killing one loving adult among many, but Teddy’s Sirius. 

He turns away. He knows Tonks would disapprove― in fact he can almost hear Tonks’ blunt voice in his ear, ordering him to sit with her mother, to provide that lonely figure some comfort and company as she mourns… but the thought hurts too much. Harry needs to retreat somewhere to lick his wounds in private. 

Unfortunately, it’s that exact moment when Professor McGonagall’s voice booms through the castle. **”Everyone to the Great Hall. Everyone to the Great Hall, immediately.”**

By now, the tables have been returned to their spots, and are rapidly filling up with people. No one is sitting by house anymore; villagers and professors and parents are all jumbled together, sitting next to centaurs and ghosts and house elves and even acromantula. Peeves is hovering over the high table, singing a cheery ditty summarizing the results of the battle. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny find seats near Neville, who’s garnering more than a few admiring glances from girls and boys alike. Bill is sitting next to him, examining the runes engraved on the Sword of Gryffindor with great interest. A little bit down the table from them, the Malfoys are sitting with Kingsley, who has just returned from the Ministry.

Professor McGonagall rises to the high table, and shushes the lingering chatter with a few brisk, quelling hand motions.

“I have a few announcements to make,” she begins. “First of all, I would like to definitively confirm that Lord Voldemort is dead, and will _not_ be returning.” There’s a wave of raucous applause. Some Hufflepuffs start chanting “POT―TER, POT―TER, POT―TER!” Harry blushes and looks away, in the process accidentally making eye contact with the Bloody Baron, who gives him a regal nod. Harry can only hope that Voldemort really is dead, otherwise he’s horribly, painfully undeserving of all of this respect. 

Professor McGonagall waits for everyone to settle down, then continues.

“It has not been a fight without casualties.” Ron wipes at wet eyes with the back of his hand, and Bill pulls Ginny into a hug. “However, they have not died in vain. This was not a pointless battle; the war has been won, and now no one else will die.” There’s another round of applause. The Hufflepuffs start chanting again, and this time most of the Great Hall joins in. Harry sinks down in his seat, his face aflame.

“Now is the time to mourn, to heal, and to rebuild.” Another round of applause, although it sounds a bit more subdued this time. Someone shouts, “POTTER FOR MINISTER!” which elicits a burst of whistles and cheers. Harry thinks his face is permanently stained tomato red at this point. He wishes he could melt into the floor.

“Hogwarts has taken a lot of damage,” Professor McGonagall continues once there’s silence. “Unfortunately, the Fiendfyre in the east wing is still raging, although thanks to the actions of a few skilled volunteers―” Bill and Malfoy raise their hands, nodding in acknowledgement at the quick round of applause― “it has been contained. The wards of the castle have also been greatly impacted. Although the extent of the damage is not fully known at this time, our preliminary examinations have lead us to believe that the castle is currently unsafe to inhabit.” Gasps echo through the hall.

“When do you think they’ll be able to reopen Hogwarts?” Harry leans across the table to ask Bill. He can’t imagine Hogwarts, his only real home, _closed_.

Bill looks grim. “I doubt Hogwarts will be able to reopen at all. Fiendfyre…” he shakes his head.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks lowly. He supposes the dead don’t need homes, but still, what Bill says makes his stomach twist most uncomfortably.

“Fiendfyre is very easy to cast, but impossible to control,” Bill says. “It’s so cataclysmic that no sane wizard, no matter how Dark, will cast it. If there is a way to extinguish it, I don’t know it.” 

With a sinking heart, Harry nods.

“We will be evacuating in an orderly fashion,” Professor McGongall tells the crowd. “As in the evacuation prior to the battle, please do not attempt to collect possessions. However, unlike in the evacuation prior to the battle, it is not safe to use the secret passages, as many are in danger of collapse with the wards so compromised. Instead, we will be exiting directly through the windows―” Professor McGonagall points to the shattered windows along the side of the Great Hall, “―which are conveniently open for this purpose.” There’s a smattering of laughter. “Following this, we will head past the remains of the wards until it is safe to Apparate.” 

“However, there are some additional items that must be addressed before we evacuate. The centaurs have assured me that they, Grawp and the acromantula shall be safe in the Forbidden Forest, and I will organize the evacuation of the Lake, but I will need your aid for the Hogwarts house elves, as well as the animal residents native to Hogwarts. If you are willing to house Hogwarts’ elves, cats, or owls until such a time as Hogwarts is once more inhabitable, please light the tip of your wand green and raise it above your head.” 

Harry lights up the tip of his wand, and raises it up. Around him, Hermione raises her green-lit wand proudly above her, Ron is trying to change the color of his light to something “less Slytherin-ish” and Ginny is trying to get her wand-tip up higher than Bill’s, with limited success. 

The doors open, and the house elves of Hogwarts troop in, their arms full of cats, kneazles, toads, pygmy puffs, rats, and more. A couple of dogs gamely bound after the group, and it seems like every house elf has at least one owl perching on it’s shoulder or head. Harry spots one house elf carrying a gigantic snail. 

The house elves open their arms, and the animals dash forward, finding their preferred people. About a dozen pygmy puffs swarm Ginny and clamber all over her. A familiar orange half-kneazle settles into Hermione’s lap and begins kneading her thighs while purring very loudly, and a large, yellow-speckled toad of a very handsome dark green hops right onto Neville’s shoulders. 

Harry, for his part, is surprised to find a silky black kneazle winding itself around his legs, purring softly. Harry cautiously picks it up, and sees that it is sleek and streamlined, except for the messy tufts of fur out in and around it’s absurdly large ears, and at the end of its long tail. 

“It looks kind of like you,” Ginny laughs, pointing at the messy fur around its ears.

Looking around, all of the animals have ended up with a wizard or witch, and now the house elves are beginning to move gingerly through the tables. 

Kreacher settles in front of Harry. “Kreacher is glad to see that Master has found a familiar worthy of his station,” Kreacher sniffs. 

Harry smiles weakly. “Glad to see you too, Kreacher.”

People are starting to exit the Great Hall through the windows and head towards the apparation point. Harry stands and begins to head out, Ron and Hermione falling in to the left of him. 

“Mr. Potter,” comes a slow, deep voice. 

“Kingsley!” Harry grins, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you.” 

“I heard that you got appointed acting Minister of Magic,” Bill says from where he’s walking with Neville. 

“Indeed I did. I can only hope I can fulfil the role well,” he replies solemnly. 

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Harry reassures him. 

“Thank you,” Kingsley responds sincerely. “Your support means a great deal to me. I hate to ask more of you after all that you’ve done, but I have an issue that you could be vital in helping with.”

“Oh?” 

“The Malfoys have defected,” Kingsley explains. “I have intelligence on where most of the Death Eaters will have fled, and I would like to bring them to justice as soon as possible. I have some Aurors ready and willing to help but,” he grimaces, “not enough.” 

“I’ll do it,” Harry says at once. 

“I can help with the wards,” Bill speaks up. 

“I’ll help,” Ron speaks up. 

“As will I,” Neville agrees.

“I think a lot of the DA would be willing to help,” Ginny says. “I can go ask around, if you like.” She grinned wryly. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t want my help?” 

“Most definitely not,” Kingsley replied firmly. “Only those of age.”

Ginny begins weaving through the crowd, speaking to both Order members and of-age members of the DA. Harry turns to Kreacher. “Please take him―” he gestures to the kneazle― “to Grimmauld Place. Make sure that there’s nothing out that could harm him, buy him food and bedding, and do whatever else you feel is necessary to help him settle in well.”

Kreacher nods. The kneazle, who had been walking behind Harry this entire time, leaps up onto Kreacher’s shoulder in one graceful motion. A moment later, both of them disappear with a quiet pop. 

More and more fighters fall into step as they draw nearer to the Apparation point. Harry is unsurprised to see Mrs. Weasley, Hestia Jones and Ernie Macmallian joining the group. He is more surprised when a rather pale and drawn looking Narcissa Malfoy joins them. He wouldn’t imagined she would want to join the battle.

“The Malfoys passed the mastery of their manor over to Lord Voldemort early in the War,” Kingsley explains as they walk. “However, they left in a failsafe, through which a Malfoy may disable some of the wards. Lady Malfoy will be performing that duty for us.”

It’s already been almost three hours since Voldemort’s downfall, and with every passing minute, it becomes more likely that the Death Eaters will leave Malfoy Manor and go to ground elsewhere. Kingsley rapidly sketches out the battle plan. Narcissa Malfoy will Apparate in first, alone, and remove the wards which would reveal the presence of strangers to the Death Eaters inside. After that, Bill and the other ward-breakers will Apparate in, and unravel the remaining warding around the Manor, as well as set up barriers so the Death Eaters won’t be able to flee the grounds.

Then, everyone else will move in. Groups stationed in the secret passages will block the exits, and other groups will sweep through each room of the manor. 

Leaving Hogwarts is painful, but leaving Hogwarts to go onto a battlefield is less painful. The battlefield is familiar enough to Harry to be a second home. One by one, they disappear with the loud cracks of Apparation. When Harry Apparates away, it’s with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally everyone: you’re not a horcrux, Harry
> 
> Harry: you just said ‘you’re a horcrux, Harry’, right? Wow, I guess I really need to go kill myself.


	6. His Last, Best Lieutenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the war really over if there are still battles to fight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fire tests gold, adversity brave men." ―Seneca

Harry Apparates midstep, his foot rising from the trampled ground of Hogwarts and falling on the lush, manicured lawn of Malfoy Manor. The wrought iron gates and dense hedge glower before him and Harry smiles back at them, that same fierce, fearless smile that battle always draws up to his face.

The others are muttering Disillusionment Charms, but Harry instead sweeps his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders. He falls into step with Neville, the others following behind them. Due to Narcissa Malfoy’s work, the gates are intangible before them; he and the others walk right through them as if they’re no more than an illusion. 

On either side, peacocks roam through the opulent gardens. A babbling fountain spits out a smooth stream of glittering water. The idyllic scenery belies the adrenaline pumping through Harry’s veins, the way every bit of him feels primed to fight. 

They reach the elegant doors, which they are similarly able to walk right through. The pale faces of the portraits are dozing, unknowing, in their frames, and the manor is eerily silent. The fighters peel off in their preplanned groups, moving to sweep each room. 

Neville and Harry approach the drawing room door. Harry tries to step through the door, but unlike every other door in this house, it’s still solid, and he instead whacks his toe rather hard on the base. 

“It’s solid,” he breathes in warning.

The doorknob begins to turn, and Harry knows that Neville must be opening the door. He flicks his wrist, drawing Malfoy’s wand.

A whip of fire slips through the opening. It coils around Neville’s forearm, twisting and tightening like a boa constrictor trying to strangle its prey. 

“Congelatio,” Harry whispers. The firy whip turns ashy gray and falls away, disintegrating on the carpet. 

The door falls open. Bellatrix Lestrange stands in the center of the drawing room, her makeup smeared and her hair even more wild than usual. Harry trains his wand on her as best he can manages, although his hand is trembling slightly. Odd, since Harry doesn’t feel nervous in the least.

“Who are you?” Bellatrix purrs, prowling forward. “I know you’re there…” She smiles the toothy grin of a feral alley cat.

All at once, Bellatrix is in motion. “Homenum revelio!” she spits, and Neville appears before her. A mad grin splits her face, and she whispers, “Neville Longbottom. Come for vengeance, have you?” She giggles. “We’ll see about that, won’t we...” Her manner changes abruptly, and she rasps, “I think you’ll just go the same way as Mummy and Daddy! _Crucio!_ ” 

Neville ducks aside, shocked out of his surprise. “Stupefy!” he yells. 

Bellatrix cackles wildly. “I’ll do you one far better than that! _Petrify_ ,” she hisses in Parseltongue. The pale, sickly yellow spell slips through the air, dipping and weaving like a snake. 

While Neville stares at it, dumbfounded, Harry hisses, “ _Cease._ ” in Parseltongue, and the spell obediently withers away to nothing. 

Bellatrix’s eyes dart right to Harry. “Aveho velamen!” A strong breeze tugs at Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, but it somehow stays firm. Meanwhile, Neville has drawn up a simple shield, and now he tries to distract her with a shout of, “Locomotor Mortis! Expelliarmus!” 

Bellatrix draws up a shield of mirrored ice and the spells bounce off, very nearly hitting Harry. Harry ducks behind one of the ornate armchairs, hoping Bellatrix will assume he’s kept his earlier position. 

“Confracto!” Bellatrix calls, and cracks splinter through Neville’s shield. “Resiliunt in armis!” Now a bright, sharp bolt of light slips through one of the cracks. Neville shifts out of the way, and the bolt embeds itself deep into the wall.

“Lentus, Tarantallegra,” Harry chants, but his fingers suddenly go stiff and straight, and he drops his wand. 

Bellatrix’s eyes lock onto the chair, and she calls, “Accio wand!” Harry’s wand slaps into her palm with a loud _thwack!_ and she grins triumphantly. “Let’s see, Potter, if you’ll be able to lie so well without a tongue- _detrunco lingua!_ ” 

Harry rolls out of the way of the whirling curse, coming to a stop behind a nearby couch. 

“As for you, blood traitor… why don’t we make you a mudblood like you always wanted? Imputresco!” Bellatrix volleys a pitch black spell at Neville. He ducks, and it hits the door, eating away at the wood and turning whatever it touches to rot.

Bellatrix stomps her foot like a child having a tantrum. “Wizards don’t dodge, blood traitor! Are your shields truly worth so little?” 

Harry stifles a laugh. Dodging was the first lesson he taught in the DA. 

“Now you’ve truly proven my point- except you don’t want to be a mudblood at all, but a _muggle_! Sanguisugæ!” 

Grinning, Neville dodges this spell as well. “Flipendo!” He yells. The spell reflects off the ice shield, making Neville fly head over heels and slam into the wall. Bellatrix cackles, quickly regaining her earlier good mood.

“You’re just as helpless and weak as when I first met you,” she laughs. “Crucio!” Neville rolls out of the way, but only just barely.

“Fire!” Harry hollers from his hiding place, and Neville luckily understands what he means. “Incendio!” he bellows, and flame bursts from his wand, licking away at Bellatrix’s shield. 

“Glacius!” Bellatrix responds, snuffing out the flame. “Crucio!” This time, Neville doesn’t manage to dodge. Desperate energy fills Harry. He puts his back to the couch and _pushes_ with all of his might and more than a bit of his magic, sending it sliding between Neville and Bellatrix. 

Bellatrix clambers clumsily over the back of the couch, and is about to resume torturing Neville when Harry lobs a coffee table at her, again with a healthy helping of magic. She spins furiously. “Reducto!” The coffee table explodes into a thousand splinters. “Oppugno!” The splinters hover in the air for a split second before dashing right towards Harry. Instinctive panic fills Harry, and his magic freezes the barrage inches from his skin. 

Bellatrix frowns, looking surprised, and Harry takes the opportunity to glance over at Neville and see how he’s doing.

Neville is pale and shaking, his eyes tightly. Harry shuts his own eyes as well. “Lumos!” He pours everything he has into the spell, making the room so bright that the light sears through his eyelids. 

When he opens his eyes again, Bellatrix is dazed, staring around blindly. Harry dashes to Neville, shaking him frantically. Neville groans and manages to lift his head, before sitting up with Harry’s help. By this time, Bellatrix’s sight has mostly returned, as has her rage. 

“Avada Kedavra!” she rasps. Harry pulls him and Neville out of the spell’s path just in time. Bellatrix isn’t done yet, however. “Avada Kedavra!” she yells again. Harry just manages to get him and Neville out of the way. He can see Bellatrix gearing up for another round, so he calls, “Wingardium Leviosa!” and pulls one of the armchairs into the air above them. Bellatrix’s Killing Curse hits the armchair harmlessly- Bellatrix can’t kill something that isn’t alive in the first place, Harry thinks with cold satisfaction. 

“Incendio,” Neville whispers with eyes still screwed shut, and white-hot flame devours Bellatrix’s shield. 

“Reducto!” she yells through a face twisted with rage, and the armchair flies to pieces. 

“Reducto!” Neville echoes back, and Bellatrix’s chest explodes with an awful sound of shattering bone.

There’s silence for a moment, neither of them really believing what happened. Then Neville turns his head aside and vomits all over the Malfoys’ fancy carpet. 

It’s at this moment that the door bursts open, and Elphias Doge, Seamus Finnigan, and Alicia Spinnet enter. 

“Bloody hell,” Seamus mutters. Neville spasms, vomiting up a bit more bile. 

“The rest of the manor’s been swept,” Elphias Doge says after a long moment. “Kingsley wants everyone to meet in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.” 

Harry nods and rises unsteadily to his feet, before walking cautiously to the body and taking Malfoy’s wand out of Bellatrix’s limp, claw-like hand. 

Harry, Neville, Seamus, Alicia, and Elphias Doge enter the Ministry through the phone booth. When Elphias explains their reason for coming, the booth spits little name tags reading “Returning Victors” for each of them. 

The Atrium looks almost exactly as it had when Harry visited it early this year. Although the endless "Mudbloods and the Danger They Pose to a Peaceful Society" posters are gone, it’s clear they were hastily torn down very recently; shiny, pink scraps of paper still cling to the walls here and there. The hateful "Magic is Might" statue is all too visible, towering forbiddingly over the rest of the Atrium. 

The only difference is the people. Stepping out of the Floo now is Kingsley, with Hestia Jones, Ernie Macmallian, and Susan Bones only a few steps behind. From out of the Floo across from them come Lee Jordan, Auror Savage, and Michael Corner; at another Floo only a few down Terry Boot, Katie Bell and Bill Weasley are clambering out. 

“Before we do anything,” Alicia announces loudly, “We’ve _got_ to pull that dreadful statue down.” This statement is greeted with cheers, and Alicia calls, “Lignum reprobi, everybody!” 

“Lignum reprobi!” They all cast, until the statute wobbles on its seating and then slams into the floor with a tremendous crash. The air is filled with the cheering of the DA and the Order. It looks a little bit more like the Atrium they know, now. 

“We must get all these Death Eaters securely in custody,” Kingsley announces, and the group heads towards the security stand. 

The security wizard is looking rather flustered. He’s even more badly shaven than when Harry last saw him, and his peacock blue robes have yellowish sweat stains around the armpits. “W-wand,” he stutters. 

“Hello, Eric,” Kingsley says cordially, passing over his wand. 

“H-hello, Kingsl- M-Minister,” Eric stutters. Eric sets Kingsley’s wand on the wand-weigher with shaking hands. As the wand-weigher slowly spits out a slim slip of parchment, Eric’s eyes flick anxiously towards Harry. Harry attempts a smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace considering the way Eric flinches away from him. 

Eric pins the piece of parchment up with such force that it nearly rips the paper in two. Harry sets his wand on the wand-weigher without prompting. 

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair, been in use seven years?” Eric asks, his voice cracking slightly.

Harry nods. As he receives the wand back, he can’t help but for a brief moment, nostalgically recall his old holly and phoenix feather wand- now in two barely connected pieces in the pouch around his neck.

The group is too large to fit on one lift. Harry ends up on the first lift, with Kingsley, Neville, and a good lot of the others. The space above their head is filled with a dense cloud of memos; the moment the door opens, they shoot off, flapping frantically as they struggle to move as quickly as possible. 

“It’s a big transition for the Ministry,” Kingsley says mildly as they walk down the corridors. The windows along the corridor display roiling black clouds- a protest, Kingsley says, by blood purists in the Magical Maintenance Department.

Kingsley pushes open the oak doors before them with one broad hand. The room before them is a mess; it looks a bit like a tornado appeared, whirled everything around a bit, and then disappeared shortly afterwards. One wizard in a stained scarlet robe is gulping in huge mouthfuls of Firewhiskey when they enter. He twists guiltily away, stuffing the bottle into one of his drawers. 

“We’ll be debriefing from the mission just like Aurors do,” Kingsley says in a tone that makes Harry think of how field schools in his primary school. Kingsley picks his way gingerly through the mess to the huge blackboard at the back. Someone has scrawled, “VOLDEMORT IS DEAD!” across it in huge red chalk letters, and drawn a huge lightning bolt in gold chalk next to it. “Auror Proudfoot, if you would demonstrate how it’s done.” 

Auror Proudfoot steps forward and picks up a yardstick from where it leans against the blackboard. The moment he does, a nearby cupboard slams open, and a stenotype comes flying out. 

At once he begins rattling a precise account of his participation in the mission, as the stenograph clicks and clatters to keep up with him. Proudfoot finishes summarizing what strategies he used, then notes that “there were no casualties.” 

“It’s a truth stick,” Kingsley explains to the other Dumbledore’s Army members. “It compels you to speak the facts that are necessary for the report.” 

Auror Proudfoot hands the yardstick to Harry. 

Harry finds words pouring out of his mouth without really thinking about them. He describes the mission in far more detail than he would have otherwise, bringing up little facts that he wouldn’t have bothered to include in a usual account. Once he finally stops talking, he hands the yardstick to Neville, who begins rattling off his own report. 

“You’re free to go,” Kingsley says to Harry. “Proudfoot here can show you to the cafeteria, if you like.” 

Harry nods. He thinks the last time he ate was at Aberforth’s inn, almost two full days before. 

The Ministry Cafeteria is a long, low room with peacock blue tile flooring. In sheer volume it’s probably a little bit larger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but it’s shaped differently; it’s more rectangular, where as the Great Hall is more square. Either way, the large room is completely empty except for a tired looking witch in blue robes standing behind the counter. 

As Harry approaches, he notes that the counter has sink-like indents in it, as though meant to hold food. Harry even spots one section labeled “Salad Bar”. 

“Bit late for lunch, isn’t it? Although I guess it’s too early for dinner, at the same time...” The blue-robed witch says, rubbing at her eyes. Then her gaze catches on Harry, and her mouth drops open. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Auror Proudfoot replies easily. “Got anything to eat?” 

“J-just sandwiches, I’m afraid,” the witch stutters nervously. “The Dark Lord had all the house elves bind themselves directly to him, and… I’m sorry, I’m babbling, let me get you each a plate.” She heads to the back room, then returns several minutes later carrying two trays. 

One is loaded up with six large sandwiches stuffed with fillings to the point they might burst, a large mug full to the rim with pumpkin juice, and three chocolate chip cookies. The other holds three regularly sized sandwiches, a plastic cup half-full with pumpkin juice, and a single chocolate chip cookie. The witch hands the more generous tray shyly over to Harry, then passes the other tray to Proudfoot. 

“What, only one cookie?” Proudfoot asks in mock offense. 

“Well, Proudfoot, _you_ didn’t defeat the Dark Lord, did you?” The witch points out, glancing quickly over towards Harry as though to be certain he won’t be offended by her bluntness.

Harry rolls his eyes and shoves his tray into Proudfoot’s calloused hands. 

Proudfoot stares a moment before shrugging and following Harry to one of the tables. “Thanks, Potter,” he says with a grin. 

Harry nods back, swallowing a yawn so big that it threatens to permanently disconnect his jaw from the rest of his skull. He doesn’t think he could eat all of the food on that tray either way, and he didn’t have the patience to listen to Proudfoot going on about something so stupid. 

Harry’s just taken a bite of the sandwich when the door to the cafeteria slams open, and a short, squat man rushes in, a tower of parchment balanced in his arms. As he enters the room, it all slips out of his hands. He looks so pathetic scrambling around for the pieces that despite his exhaustion, Harry finds himself getting up and helping the wizard gather his things.

“ _Mister_ Harry Potter!” The short wizard says, practically vibrating with delight. “Just the wizard I was hoping to see! The wizard of the hour, as it were!” 

Oh no, Harry thinks unhappily. Worst that Voldemort, worse than Death Eaters, worse than dementors- a _fan_. 

“Oh, I was so _hoping_ I would manage to catch you- I heard just a _whisper_ of a rumor that you’d been spotted around the Auror Department- they worked very hard to keep it under wraps, but _I_ heard, of course, _I_ hear everything, it’s my job…” He chuckles rather unscrupulously. “Oh Merlin no, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Manford Carneirus, Daily Prophet.” He sticks out a hand, which Harry reluctantly shakes. It is very sweaty, evidently with nerves. 

Far, far, worse than a fan. A _reporter_.

“Alright!” Carneirus takes a deep breath, then says very quickly, “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” he doesn’t wait for Harry to reply, continuing at once, “Just to reassure the public, you know, they’re all on the edges of their seats, haha!” He chuckles unconvincingly. “First of all, I’ve _got_ to know, what were you up to in the Ministry just now?” 

“Just helping out with some things,” Harry tells him blandly. He wonders how the Prophet will twist that- _HARRY POTTER TAKING OVER MINISTRY IN VIOLENT COUP_ , perhaps.

“And during the war? What were you up to then?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Confidential, I’m afraid.” There’s no way he’s telling the _Prophet_ about horcruxes, there’ll be thirty new Dark Lords in a week, and worst of all, every last one of them will be middle-aged, gossipy housewitches. 

“Well then! Keep your secrets, Boy-Who-Lived!” He punches Harry’s arm, emitting another unconvincing chuckle. Harry narrowly resists the impulse to draw up his wand and hit him with a few choice dueling spells. “Next question! Did you really rob Gringotts?” Carneirus asks eagerly. “How did you do it? _Why_ did you do it?” 

“I imagine the goblins would rather I not say anything about that,” Harry says vaguely. He glances at the exit, desperately hoping someone will appear to save him.

“So you _did_!” Carneirus exclaims delightedly. “And why?” He wiggles his eyebrows salaciously. “Was the Chosen One running low on funds?” 

Harry looks at him, vaguely disturbed and confused. He’d never known that someone merely wiggling their eyebrows could be so awful- it reminds him of the awfulness Umbridge could instill in the mere act of fake coughing. “It was necessary to retrieve something instrumental in defeating Voldemort,” Harry settles on. 

“Ah! I see!” Carneirus grins. “And the dragon? Please, Harry, tell us about the dragon! The readers are eager to know!” 

Harry is silent. Where’s Auror Proudfoot? Can’t he see that Harry is being grievously assaulted over here? 

“Well, I see you are rather tight lipped on that particular topic- what are your plans now that the war’s over, then? Any truth to the rumors regarding you and a certain Weasley?” He wiggles his eyebrows again. Harry shudders.

At that moment, Kingsley appears from around the corner. “Would you like to take your lunch in my office, Harry?” He asks. 

“Please,” Harry sighs. He grabs his tray of food and follows Kingsley through the halls of the Ministry to the Minster’s Office. “Thank you for saving me.” 

Kingsley chuckles in his deep voice. “Carneirus can be a handful, can’t he?” He opens the door in front of them, revealing a large office outfitted with furniture in rich shades of brown and gold. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Harry settles into a plush armchair. He expects Kingsley to try to make conversation with him, but Kingsley seems to content to let him eat while he slowly works through the huge stacks of paper overshadowing him. 

The impact of his use of wandless spells starts to really hit Harry, and soon he can barely eat, let alone keep his eyes open. Despite his best efforts, he soon finds himself drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the dueling scene for this was surprisingly fun. It was a good opportunity to show the different dueling styles- Bellatrix using highly specific and vicious curses, and then Harry and Neville retaliating with spells that an average third year knows, lol.


	7. Upwards Towards the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wonders if falling will feel like flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”  
> ―E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

Harry sits on the Astronomy Tower, his legs dangling into the void.

What would it feel like, he wonders, to fall? Would it be like flying, only with a more permanent end? Or would it be like those falling dreams he sometimes gets when he goes to bed hungry, where the pit of your stomach falls before the rest of you? Harry would like to find out.

If Snape was here, he’d sneer, ask what the spoiled Boy-Who-Lived was doing about to off himself. After all, Harry Potter has everything he could ever want, doesn’t he? Fame and money and admirers, a spot on the Quidditch team and an Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map. 

The trouble is that Harry, for a little, while, _did_ have everything he wanted- or at least, had the thing he wanted most in the world. The deepest desire of his heart, Harry remembers Dumbledore telling him. 

For a brief, glorious golden age, Harry had a family. Not a mother, not a father, not a sister nor a brother, but a family nonetheless. Sirius, his godfather, the only adult who ever offered to take him in, to rescue him from the Dursleys. Sirius, who would do anything for him, flee Azkaban or live as a dog or leave his summery vacation just because Harry’s scar hurt. 

Most people take their families for granted, especially teenagers. The boys in Harry’s common room argue with their parents all the time, and even Ron, who knows a bit about Harry’s situation, complains about his parents. About how Mrs. Weasley always packs corned beef sandwiches even though Ron hates them, and how she keeps on bothering him about his grades, and how Mr. Weasley always wants to talk about muggle technology instead of Quidditch or anything else _interesting_. 

Harry’s parents are dead. They can’t make Harry food, or bother him about his grades, or talk to him. The Dursleys were supposed to be his replacement family (a frankly ridiculous thought), and they don’t make Harry food either. 

Harry cooks all of the food in their house, and even then he doesn’t get to eat as much of it as he would like. Plus, when they lock him up in his cupboard, Harry doesn’t get any human food at all- Aunt Petunia likes to give him cat food, or sometimes dog food, when she thinks he’s “acting like an animal”. As for grades, they used to bother him about grades, but instead of encouraging to focus on his learning and try to improve himself like Mrs. Weasley does, they would scold Harry for upstaging Dudley by getting better grades than him. And when they did reluctantly deign to speak to him, it would only be to give him his list of chores for the day. 

Having a family- having Sirius- meant _everything_ to him. But Sirius is dead as a doorknob now. Dead because Harry was too stupid and arrogant, too childish and irresponsible, to resist Voldemort’s bait. Dead because he and the other members of the Order of the Phoenix had to come and put themselves in danger, cleaning up the mess Harry had made.

Harry scouts closer to the edge, his fingers brushing over the rough stone. Remus assumed Harry ran towards the Veil of Death because he didn’t understand that Sirius was dead yet, but it was the opposite. 

Comprehension hit Harry at once- he’s always been a fast learner when it comes to tragedy. He comprehended immediately, like a flash of lightning, that Sirius was dead, that it was his fault, that he would never have a family- and he bounded up the steps, dived towards the Veil- only for Remus to drag him back.

Sirius’ death, and his own subsequence self destruction, is his own fault. He had a chance at normalcy, at acceptance, at having a family, and he fucked it all up. His pain is his own fault. The Dursleys were right- something in Harry is permanently fucked up ( _freakish_ ), so that he’s unlovable, and those who try anyway die for their attempt. 

Harry stares down into the dark. The ground is so far below that it’s impossible for him to see. This will be the way to pay his debt to Sirius back, to put things right, to kill the freakishness within him. Harry closes his days. When he opens them, he’ll see Sirius, and he’ll be smiling, because Harry will have done what he wanted of him.

But no. Harry opens his eyes, frowning. Sirius would never have wanted Harry to kill himself. He knows that, knows that like he knows every line on Sirius’ face and the exact shade of grey that his eyes were. Harry rocks back and forth, digging his nails into his arms as he tries to think what Sirius _would_ want. It takes a moment, but the answer comes to him. 

Sirius would want him to be responsible, not make mistakes of the sort that killed him. Sirius would want him to live, so that he could kill Voldemort instead of making other people die in his place like Sirius himself had to do. 

Harry rocks back and forth faster. It’s selfish, because even though he _knows_ that if he kills himself, he’ll just be fleeing his responsibilities to Sirius, betraying his only family member once again, but he wants to die _so bad_ , wants it like he wants oxygen, wants it as an ache deep in his bones, deep in his soul. 

But no. He won’t do it. Harry won’t kill himself, at least not yet. He’ll stay alive for Sirius’ sake, until he’s killed Voldemort or died trying. And to make himself stick to it… 

Harry closes his eyes, focusing on his resolve, turning it into something solid in his mind, a barrier of pure _will_ which will prevent him from succumbing into his desires. “Expecto Patronum,” he speaks, and a Patronus gleaming with a metallic shine bursts forth from his wand, so solid that he can rap his knuckles against it. 

Harry does not smile as he takes the stairs down from the top of the Astronomy tower, but nor does he look back, and his thoughts are full of thoughts and plans for how he can improve, how he can learn and grow and become good enough, instead of thoughts of whether falling would feel like flying.


	8. The Augurey Weeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a mental breakdown in front of a bunch of diplomats from the International Confederation of Wizards, which is... awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pain has an element of blank;  
> It cannot recollect  
> When it began, or if there were  
> A day when it was not  
> It has no future but itself,  
> Its infinite realms contain  
> Its past, enlightened to perceive"
> 
> ―Emily Dickinson

Harry starts awake, wand in hand and already pointed at the threat even before he pries apart his sleep-crusted eyes. 

Harry is embarrassed to note the threat that he was prepared to curse to kingdom come is just a house elf in a pillowcase of creamy silk, blinking in confusion at the wand pressed to his jugular. Harry sheepishly puts his wand away, apologizing as he does so. 

Once the wand is away the house elf does a strange little roll of his shoulders as he straightens, and then speaks. “Savan, Head Assistant to the International Confederation of Wizards, announces the imminent arrival of a host of representatives from the International Confederation of Wizards to confer with the newly appointed Minister of Magic of the United Kingdom regarding their aid in his country’s time of need.” The house elf then dips into a bow and steps to the side so that he’s no longer blocking the fireplace. 

Harry is too bleary and sleep-deprived to get all of that, but the jist of things seems to be that some big important political people are on their way. Big important political people are among Harry’s least favorite types of people, so he glances hopefully at Kingsley, thinking that if Kingsley rescued him from that reporter, perhaps he’ll rescue him from this? Surely he doesn’t want Harry mucking up international relations, after all.

Unfortunately Kingsley doesn’t catch his gaze, instead addressing the house elf. “I and my companion, Harry Potter, are both delighted to welcome these visitors, and deeply grateful for any aid they are willing to provide. Please have them come through,” Kingsley replies in his deep, smooth voice. 

_Fuck_. Now that Kingsley’s said he’s here, he can’t subtly slip away like he was planning to. Why would Kingsley do that? Harry again tries to make eye contact with Kingsley, but Kingsley is watching the fireplace intently.

Savan nods. “May I present the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Honorable Cicero Eolus Corvus, Flamen Dialis of Constantinople.” [1]

The fireplace flares green, and a wizard steps out. He wears loose robes of deep green silk, clinched tight around his waist by a belt decorated with an elaborate gold buckle. A round hat, also of deep green, sits atop his head, and he has a long, grey beard.

Kingsley rises and bows, and after a split second hesitation, Harry mimics him. The Supreme Mugwump inclines his head slightly in return, and clasps Harry’s hand, then Kingsley’s. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Kingsley says. The Supreme Mugwump takes a seat in one of the armchairs farther from Kingsley’s desk and closer to where Harry sits. Harry eyes him warily as he does so. 

“From the Integrian Party, Princess I’nsan du Prêtre de la Reine, third daughter of the Witch Queen of the Baoulé people[2], and Miss Nicole Dantes, St. Lucia’s Ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards,” Savan announces.

The Floo flares, and the two new arrivals step out. The differences between the two of them are striking; one, Harry assumes Princess I’nsan du Prêtre de la Reine, is dressed in heavy woven robes bright with vivid, clashing color, and is weighed down with elaborate gold jewelry. The other, who Harry assumes to be Miss Dantes, is dressed in tailored robes of a deep, subtle burgundy color, her hair pulled sleekly back. 

Both of the new arrivals look a fair bit younger than the Supreme Mugwump, looking to be in perhaps their late thirties. Miss Dantes shakes both Harry and Kingsleys’ hands, but the Princess merely gives them each a simple greeting in accented English before sitting down. Both of the new arrivals eye Harry with naked curiosity, but Harry is relieved to note that unlike the Supreme Mugwump, they leave him a few chairs buffer. 

“From the Protectionist Party, Mr. Mateo Chikiamco-Mendoza, Los Buenos Jardines’[[3](%E2%80%9C#note3%E2%80%9D)] Ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards, and Lord Aindrea Papadopoulos of Atlantis.” 

Mr. Mateo Chikiamco-Mendoza is a slim wizard with graying curly hair, dressed in a shorter, fuller robe that ends a bit above his knees, and wide, loose trousers. Lord Aindrea Papadopoulos, meanwhile, is both more youthful and more muscled, and wears a long, loosely draped toga with a thick cloak over it. 

As with the other representatives, their eyes catch on Harry’s with interest, and they only pay a bit of attention to Kingsley. Harry is starting to get irritated and uncomfortable; when Lord Papadopoulos almost sits next to him, Harry can’t help but lean back. Lord Papadopoulos is graceful enough to switch to another seat with a naturalness that makes it look as though nothing happened at all, but Harry still feels a bitter taste rise in his mouth. 

He knows that likely Wizarding Britain’s fate depends on these representatives and thus it is important to curry favor with them, but at the same time he’s starting to get the feeling Kingsley brought him here in order to use his reputation as the Boy-Who-Lived as a political chip of some sort. Not only does this make Harry feel a bit used, it also painfully reminds Harry of the many ways that he fails to live up to others’ expectations for him. 

Plus, _Kingsley_ is the British Minister of Magic, not Harry. It hardly seems fair to Kingsley that there’ll all paying attention to a seventeen year old instead of the actual Minister of Magic. It puts a bad taste in Harry’s mouth, making him feel guilty and like he’s wronging Kingsley in some way even though it’s not _his_ fault these representatives think a seventeen year old Hogwarts dropout is somehow more important than the literal _Minister of Magic_.

“From the Prosperity Party, Tsarevna Matroyna Rasputina of Russia, and Lord Charles Ulferbht [[4](%E2%80%9C#note4%E2%80%9D)] of Magical Germany.”

 _How many more of these **are** there?_ Harry thinks in exasperation. 

Tsarevna Matroyna Rasputina is a slender woman with dark hair accented with hints of silver. Unlike the others’ more colorful clothing, she wears restrained black robes of a sturdy, simple material. Despite this, her keen gray eyes have an intensity that clearly shows that she isn’t to be underestimated.

Lord Charles Ulferbht, meanwhile, appears to be about Lord Papadopoulos’ age. He wears tailored robes of cobalt blue, accented with steel gray embroidery on the stiff cuffs. A sword hangs at his hip, though judging by the elaborate embossing of its scabbard it is merely ornamental.

Harry withdraws his hand from Lord Ulferbht’s firm handshake as soon as common courtesy allows it. He desperately wants to be allowed to curl up and slip back to sleep, away from all of these intimidating figures with their eyes that follow Harry’s every move. He feels overwhelmed and nervy, like a wounded animal dragged out into the light instead of being allowed to lick its wounds in the peaceful dark.

“We have come,” the Supreme Mugwump announces, “Because the Augurey of the Chamber is weeping for the fate of your nation.” His eyes move towards Harry briefly, and he must see Harry’s baffled expression because he explains, “The Augurey of the Chamber is an enchanted statute which weeps when a member nation is in mortal peril.” 

Harry can’t help but snort.

Lord Ulferbht’s eyes sharpen. “You disagree?” He opens his mouth, looking fully prepared to explain all of the ways that Britain is in mortal peril.

“No, no, I agree Britain is probably still in mortal peril, it’s just— you only noticed _now_?” Harry asks. “According to my standards, Britain has been in mortal peril since about fourth year. Actually,” Harry muses bitterly, “Probably even earlier than that depending on how loosely you define ‘mortal peril’.”

“I know you are irritated,” Miss Dantes speaks in a soothing voice, “but there is an expla—”

“ _Irritated_?” Harry bursts out. “ _Irritated_ is putting it lightly! Even before the war began— before the Minister _deigned_ to acknowledge that Voldemort is back— Voldemort narrowly missed getting the Sorceror’s Stone and woke up a basilisk in a school full of magical children, and that’s not even counting his schemes of resurrection!

“That bloody well sounds like _mortal peril_ to me, but was your high-and-mighty Augurey weeping then? Well, if it was you sure as hell didn’t listen to it, because _I_ was the one who stopped all of those shitshows! Do you know what I have _sacrificed_ for this country?

“I fought a fully grown mountain troll before I even knew how to light the tip of my wand. I faced _Voldemort himself_ on the back of my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher’s head, _alone_ , when I was eleven. I’ve been bitten by a fifty foot basilisk, I have had my soul nearly devoured, I’ve survived a deadly tournament I should never have been enrolled in at all, _I’ve watched Voldemort resurrected and endured his Cruciatus-_ ” 

Harry chokes on his words. He shakes his head angrily. “I have suffered seven years worth of pain for the sake of Britain, all while being slandered and disbelieved. I have lived for Britain and I would have died for Britain too if any of those killing curses had worked- all for the sake of protecting Britain from the _mortal peril_ that,” Harry snarls, “you _only just fucking noticed!_ ”

The lightbulb above them shatters in an explosion of glass shards, and several pieces of parchment on Kingsley’s desk spontaneously catch alight. Harry pants harshly, blood rising to his face as what he’s done sinks in. “I apologize,” he says, but none of them reply.

“As Miss Dantes was starting to say,” the Supreme Mugwump says at last, “When Britain last renegotiated its membership in the ICW in 1963, they made non-interference in intranational conflicts a condition of their continued membership.” 

“Meaning,” Tsarevna Rasputina says with a glance at Harry, “ICW was not legally allowed to aid either side.” 

Princess I’nsan du Prêtre de la Reine shakes her head.“I still believe we are at fault. We should have realized that a political minority was dominating the committee of renegotiation, that they did not hold the motives of simple isolationism but instead wished to leave the Magical United Kingdom without protection in the coming war.” She bows her head. “For this, I apologize.”

Harry gapes dumbly. He’s never had a princess apologize to him before. 

“I think you should know,” Miss Dantes speaks gently, “That the aid we offer includes access to mind healers.” She looks at him, her face shining with an emotion that Harry struggles to identify— pity, he supposes? 

Harry reels back, bristling. “I’m not crazy, and I definitely don’t need some sort of shrink!” He scrambles to his feet and leaves, not quite slamming the door on his way out. 

Harry hurries through the halls of the Ministry, not caring where he’s going except that it’s _away_ , away from those threatening figures with their stares and expectations, and especially, away from Miss Dantes with her pity and talk of shrinks. 

The farther he goes, however, the more the adrenaline that had sustained since he woke back up ebbs out of him. Soon his hurried pace has turned to a regular walk, then a wander, then a wobbly trudge. Harry’s limbs feel heavy, and he can feel the hollowness within him that indicates he’s overstretched his magic— unsurprising considering how much wandless magic he’s done over the past twelve or so hours, in addition to all the spells he used during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Harry leans against the wall, feeling like if he doesn’t he’ll collapse onto the floor right here. “K—Kreacher,” Harry stutters, rubbing at his heavy eyes with the heels of his hands.

Kreacher appears before him with a pop and a disapproving frown on his face. “Foolish Master Harry,” Harry thinks he hears Kreacher muttering to himself as he drapes one of Harry’s arms over his shoulders and pulls him to his feet, but Harry’s vision is going blurry and his hearing seems to be muffled. 

They disappear with a pop. As if in a dream, Harry vaguely notices that they’re in a dim room somewhere, right in front of a bed. Harry collapses forward onto it, letting the blissful darkness consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1In the ancient Roman religion, the Flamen Dialis was the high priest of the Roman god of state Jupiter. The Flamen Dialis was one of the most important of the three _flamines maiores_ , who were the head priests to the three Roman gods of state. In the worldbuilding I've set up, the priesthoods were almost exclusively occupied by wizards and witches, and during the fall of Constantinople, they used magic to save magical Constantinople, which is now ruled by the _flamens_.  [[return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D)]
> 
> 2 [The Baoulé people](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baoul%C3%A9_people) are an ethnic group originally from Ghana, who immigrated to Côte d'Ivoire when the Ashanti rose to power.  [[return to text](%E2%80%9C#return2%E2%80%9D)]
> 
> 3 [Los Buenos Jardines](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Los_Jardines) were phantom islands often depicted on maps as being located below the Mariana Islands. [[return to text](%E2%80%9C#return3%E2%80%9D)]
> 
> 4 [ Ulferberht swords](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulfberht_swords) were swords used by the Vikings, and were famed for their quality. In this universe, they were created by a certain magical family of the same name, who was happy to get fabulously wealthy off of their magic-imbued swords. [[return to text](%E2%80%9C#return4%E2%80%9D)]
> 
> EDIT: I've been trying to make these footnotes work for ages and I just... cannot get them to work. I'm going to fix this later, but right now, I need a break. If any of you guys have any ideas, lemme know.


	9. Hoofbeats in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has an odd, yet somewhat revealing, dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Because I could not stop for Death  
> He kindly stopped for me"
> 
> —Emily Dickinson

Harry is in a world of bright vapor, as blindingly white as snow. The ground under his feet is formed of the mist, the benches spaced at intervals are formed of mist, the domed glass ceiling glittering high above him is forged out of the crystalline vapor. However, Harry is not at all concerned by the strange world he has found himself in it; it is familiar to him to the point of being not worth recognition or thought. His mind is instead turned towards his sack lunch, and whether or not he can finish all of it during his break.

Technically, Harry is perfectly allowed to eat at work, but the passengers aren’t granted the same privileges, and some of them will get upset when they see Harry eating, so Harry makes it a habit to only eat during his lunch break. Harry has the same lunch as always; four lumpy corn beef sandwiches wrapped in waxed parchment, as well as such a selection of sweets that it covers the remainder of the bench Harry is sitting on: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor beans, Cauldron Cakes, and Licorice Wands, among others.

Harry finishes scarfing down his fourth sandwich, and throws the wrapper into a nearby trash can, also constructed of snow-white mist. Having dutifully finished his sandwiches, Harry turns his attention to the candies. Harry unwraps a Chocolate Frog, biting the head off to prevent it from running before eyeing the card with interest. 

It shows a funnily familiar face, one with half-moon glasses, a long crooked nose, and flowing silver facial hair that covers almost the entirety of the lower half of his face. Harry squints at it. He feels certain he should know who the figure is, but he cannot remember for the life of him. Harry moves to read the description on the back, but he’s interrupted by a cry. 

“Hallo! Hallo!” 

With a sigh, Harry glances up. Just visible through the mist is an elderly woman in a lace nightgown, wandering around the hall. 

“Over here,” Harry calls, sweeping his remaining candies into a pocket and tucking the card into the pocket of his blazer. A check of the watch attached to his waistcoat by a long chain confirms that yes, his lunch break has ended.

The woman approaches. Like the other passengers, the only item she carries is an information pamphlet from one of the many booths around the station. 

“Hello,” she says as they get within easy speaking distance of each other. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost. The pamphlet says I should be going to Platform Four, but I don’t know where it is.” 

Harry nods his head to a sign nearby. “You’re already on Platform Four, actually.” 

“Oh,” The woman nods. “I suppose you’re the conductor?” 

Harry nods again. 

“In that case…” She spits into her closed fist, then opens it up to reveal a round gold coin. 

Harry takes the coin, checks the woman off of his list of expected commuters, and waves her onto the Express. 

After the first woman, the flow of commuters steadily increases. Soon Harry’s pocket is fairly clinking with the weight of all the fare he’s collected. Overall, the shift passes as usual; there’s only one hiccup, in the form of a stubborn commuter who refuses to board. Instead, he sits in the middle of the rails, stating that he won’t leave the station even if the train slices him to bits. 

Harry doesn’t have time for that sort of nonsense however, so he simply frog-marches the stubborn fellow up into one of the carriages, closes and locks the door, and sets off— perhaps a bit behind schedule, but still with all expected commuters.

Harry blearily blinks awake, the remnants of some sort of dream about being a train conductor clinging to him like cobwebs. A cool, if wrinkled, hand rests on his forehead, and a gravelly, yet familiar voice tells him to go back to sleep. Harry obediently drifts off once more.

A salty smell fills the air, and dark, brackish water churns beneath him. 

“Churning? You think _this_ is churning?” A deep voice asks incredulously. Harry turns, and sees that behind him stands an older, unkempt man, dressed in reddish brown robes. His beard is long and messy, his cheeks are hollow and haggard, and the hands gripping the pole he uses to push them along the riverbed are calloused and wrinkled.

Yet at the same time, there’s a twinkle in his keen bluish-grey eyes, a hint of a smile plays around the fierce mouth as he says, “This ‘churning’ water is far smoother than it’s been in ages. It’s been far smoother, in fact, ever since you removed that blockage up-river from here, laddie.” 

Harry nods, and sits down to better enjoy the ride. The gentle rocking of the boat is soothing, and there’s a strange beauty to the reflective surface. The borders of waves act as shatter-lines in the surface, creating a kaleidoscope of shards of mirror that shift with each roll.

Eventually, however, Harry gets hungry, and the boatman says, “I suppose I’d better let you get off.” Harry nods, causing his nose to bump into something. Hot broth splashes over his face, and, muttering apologizes, Kreacher quickly wipes it away with a soft cloth. 

Now that he’s awake, Harry feels that he should be the one to feed himself. However, when he holds the spoon, his fingers quickly begin shaking again, spilling even more of the broth onto him. Shaking his head, Kreacher takes the spoon back and returns to feeding Harry himself. 

Trying to ignore the sting of humiliation at this weakness, Harry finishes the bowl of broth before curling deeper into the bed. He hopes he’ll return to the dream about the boatman, as he found that one quite pleasant. 

Harry bends over his desk, scratching endless spirals into the wood with the sharpened tip of his quill pen. The wood isn’t soft enough to scratch easily, so it takes several passes over to make any mark deep enough to be seen, but Harry has more than enough time to devote to his work. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees a flash of movement, and he looks up with interest. Hermione has raised her hand, a set look on her face. At the front of the class, Trelawney continues swaying and keening. Her eyes are red from continual weeping, her hair hanging unbound over her shoulders so that she can occasionally tug on it to emphasize a particular wail. 

Trelawney must see Hermione’s hand, because she starts to wail even loader, but Hermione’s even more stubborn than she is and keeps her hand resolutely up. Finally Trelawney is forced to call on her.

“Please, Professor Trelawney, I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Tale of the Three Brothers,” Hermione asks in a clear, carrying voice.

“Very well,” Trelawney says, blotting at her wet eyes. 

“There were once three brothers who desired nothing more than to master Death,” Trelawney begins. “As is predisposed to happen with all mortals, their desire grew and grew until by-and-by it eclipsed their common sense.” 

“In pursuit of this fanatical aspiration, all three committed unspeakable crimes, breaking even the deepest and most fundamental of laws to achieve their desires. Only after their souls were blackened and broken, did they finally break Death’s hold over them. Death himself came to congratulate them, and offer each a prize as their rightful battle-plunder for achieving this victory over him.”

Something about this story sounds familiar to Harry. A sense of unease begins to rise in him, and as Trelawney continues to tell it, it grows greater and greater.

“Each brother, in his own way, was determined to change his victory into the true mastery over Death that was their final goal. Thus, each asked for a prize that they believed would allow them to achieve this.”

“The eldest of the brothers was a controlling man with a deep love for power. Thus, he asked for the power to choose who would live or die. Death’s answer to this was twofold. Firstly, he whispered to the eldest brother a few secret words of power that would draw up a curse as insurmountable and merciless as Death himself— one which no shield would block, and which would kill instantly. The power to draw up Death directly is one that few conduits bear well, however, and so Death also gave him the second part of the gift— a wand far greater than any created by mere mortal hands… a rod of elder wood white as bone.” 

“The second brother was a lovelorn man, in possession of a heart as broken as his soul was. In his youth he had meant a village girl, who he had valued more than the moon and stars. They had been engaged to marry, before her untimely death broke their bond. Therefore, he asked Death for the power to recall those from the other shore back to the world of the living. Death imbued his power into a simple river-stone, and gave it to the second brother with the assurance that a few turns of it in his hand would conjure his lost love up from the other side.” 

“Last of all, Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the most fearful and paranoid of the three brothers. As the others had requested their own prizes, he had listened in suspicion. Now, he made a very specific request— he asked for that which would enable him to go forth without being followed by Death. In response, Death swung his Cloak from his own shoulders. Made up from the very Veil between the worlds, it would make the youngest brother appear as if he was one of the dead already, and thus be invisible to Death, who is only concerned with the matter of the travel of the dying, and not the fate of them beyond the Veil.” 

Harry frowns. He could have sworn this story went differently. And what’s this about a Veil? He thought that belonged to a different story. 

“Having given his tributes, Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way. They did so, carrying on a friendly quarrel over whose prize made them the _true_ Master of Death as they journeyed.” 

“The eldest brother argued that his ability to kill, to hold other’s lives in his hands with ease, made him the true Master. However, the second brother believed that the eldest brother had only become a willing slave to Death, furthering Death’s own goals with only a thin illusion of Mastery, and that his own ability to recall souls from Death’s grasp meant he was the real Master. The third brother said nothing, hiding his smug smile as he imagined telling the tale of his cunning to his dear wife.” 

“In time, the friendly quarrel grew more serious, and the brothers separated, each eager to assure himself of his Mastery.” 

“The eldest brother, being a short-tempered man, sought out a fellow wizard who he had made an enemy of. He lifted the Elder Wand and spoke the secret words of power told to him by Death. Although his opponent drew up a shield, the touch of Death flew through it just as promised, and the eldest brother left his enemy dead upon the floor. The eldest brother, thus assured of his Mastery, proceeded to inn where he boasted to all within.”

“Desire is a powerful thing, and in his drunken bragging, the eldest brother ignited many a wizard’s desires, for the three brothers were not the only wizards who wished to master Death. That very night one impulsive young wizard slit the eldest brother’s throat in an attempt to gain the wand, although he was unhappy to learn that the eldest brother’s broken soul would not allow him to die so quickly or easily.” 

“In time, however, a clever rival desirous of the wand managed to destroy both parts of the eldest brother’s soul, and so Death took the first brother for his own.” 

“Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his lonely home. He turned the river stone thrice in his hand, and the figure of his lost love appeared before him. Yet she was sad and cold, still separated from him by a veil. At last the second brother, desire once again overcoming sense within him, removed that which bound him to the mortal world and killed himself so as to truly join her.” 

“And so Death took the second brother for his own.”

“The third brother journeyed to his own home, intending to tell the tale to his wife. However, he found to his horror that the Cloak did not just conceal him from Death, but from all living things as well. Not a word he said was heard by those around, and none could see his face or feel his hands.”

“In the end the youngest brother wandered aimlessly, unwilling to give up his immortality and supposed mastery. As the years passed without Death finding him, his paranoia grew and grew. He fled endlessly from place to place, neither dead nor alive. Finally, driven mad by his meager existence, he allowed the cloak to slip from his shoulders.”

“And so Death took the third brother for his own.”

“The three gifts, unlike the brothers were harder to regain than the brothers themselves had been. They drifted from owner to owner, luring those who attempted to master them to Death himself. Although no one owned a mere single of Death’s gifts gained Mastery over Death, the one who gained all three would become his master.” 

As Trelawney speaks the last few words, she locks gazes with Harry himself, and a thrill of fear creeps down his spine. Harry jolts awake, hyperventilating with panic.


End file.
